Scarf
by flutflutflyer
Summary: Mako is eight; Bolin, six. All they have left is a scarf, innocence, and each other - and the gnawing hunger that follows in their footsteps and cloaks them in the night. Updates daily.
1. Cake

A/N: Mako is eight; Bolin, six.

Mako has not yet discovered that he's a firebender.

He will.

The day is Bolin's birthday.

Mako and Bolin's parents were getting cake.

Mako and Bolin were raised lovingly.

Their parents were razed violently.

This is the aftermath.

And all of the aftermath to come.

This is the story of a life on the streets.

The story of brotherhood.

The story of a scarf.

Enjoy the ride.

Bring tissues.

And a heart.

* * *

"Mako? Why are you on the doorstep? Where's Mommy? And why are you wearing Daddy's scarf?"

He is curled up around the welcome mat, his nose buried in the red fabric that still smells of Daddy. After a time he looks up. Bolin is standing over him, trailing his security blanket, his green eyes bright with curiosity. "Where's my cake?" he asks, nudging Mako with his foot. "Mommy and Daddy promised me a cake for my sixth birthday."

The boy's head is pounding; he can barely see what is right in front of him. Rock. Short, stiff bristles on the mat. Five bare toes, pink and plump, wriggling and prodding his nose. "Bo?" he croaks. Pressure on his arm. Movement. He's hauled upright, the disorientation hitting him a moment later, and he wonders why the world keeps spinning.

Fire. Falling. Screaming. His parents. Grabbing. Heat. Heart. Yelling. Begging. Monster. Red. Scarf. Running. Confused. Scared. Lost.

Doorstep.

Bo.

"Cake?" Mako repeats, blinking.

Bolin bobs his head up and down eagerly, clapping his pudgy hands. "Mommy and Daddy promised, remember? Chocolate, _and_ vanilla, _and_ mint, all with fudge and nuts and chocolate and more chocolate on top." He counts off on his fingers. "Six layers. One for every year! And then six spanks for luck." His face screws up for a moment. "I don't want that. But I like luck. Mommy says life is half luck and half _wurk_." Mako stands there, watching his brother's feet curve around the doorstep as he bounces on his heels, eagerly saying the word over and over. "_Wurk wurk wurk wurk wurk_." He giggles.

His eyes abruptly widen. "Bo, that's it! Mommy and Daddy are getting you cake, Bo, more cake than you could eat in a _year_."

"In a whole _year_?" His voice is full of awe.

Mako shakes his head. "In _ten_ years. It's such a super special cake they had to go all the way to the other side of the city to get it." Taking a step into the home, he tugs his brother inside and closes the door, shutting the two of them off from the neatly trimmed lawn, the beds of flowers planted that spring by Mommy, and rest of the neighbourhood with its pristine cobbled streets and lovely white houses. "They'll come back soon. Promise."

"The other side of the city?" Bolin pouts, following his older brother; Mako checks by the sound of the former's footsteps, slapping loudly on the floor. "That'll take _days_. Weeks. Months. _Years!_ They'll have to fight through monsters, and evil spirits, and _broccoli _—"

"They'll come back." The scarf is heavy around his neck, the tip nearly trailing to the hardwood floor. Mako approaches the staircase comforting in its familiarity and ascends it on all fours, waiting on the top step for his brother to catch up. "And Daddy will light the candles, and it'll be the prettiest thing you've ever seen."

"I don't _care_ if it's pretty," he declares. "I'm _hungry_."

The walls seem oddly blank when he passes them, as though something has gone out of them. Or out of him. He can't tell, but there's _something_, somewhere, somehow missing. "There's the kitchen." The door pushes open, revealing the cabinets and frames crafted by hand by Daddy. "What do you want me to make?"

"I want Mommy to make me something." He sits on the floor, the soft thud making Mako smile. "Where is she?"

"She's getting cake. I told you. What do you want?"

His face brightens. "I want cookies. Can I get some cookies? It's my sixth birthday you know." His gaze travels to the cookie jar in the shape of a hedgecat with an upraised paw perched precariously on the edge of a counter, and he glances desperately at Mako, his eyes moist, his lower lip jutting out. "You won't tell Mommy, will you? I'll give you some, too."

"No, we shouldn't." Mako thinks about school for a moment, the thought striking him. He decides it's the weekend, since Mommy and Daddy aren't home, and they're always home during school. A hint of fire nags at him. He pushes it away, looking at his hands instead, recalling that Daddy told him it's all right he's not a firebender. "If you take some, Mommy will know. She always does." Seeing the look on Bolin's face and hearing the growl rumbling in both of their stomachs, he relents. "Okay, we can both take one. Two. But only three. Not a cookie over four. Got it?"

"Five it is!" Bolin agrees cheerfully, bumping the cabinet with his hip and earthbending the jar into his hands. He grunts, the container slipping, and Mako dives to the floor, barely catching it. The two laugh, but the older brother stops for a second to fill his mouth with cookie. His palm covers over the lip of the jar, his inner being convinced that the _second_ he takes one of the treats, Mommy will appear and punish him. A whole week without sweets. He meets Bolin's gaze, the brothers exchanging a silent pact, and the younger one scampers off to stand guard by the kitchen door. He inhales, closes his eyes, and reaches in.

He touches cookie.

It frightens him how _easily_ he can remove the treat from its spot, how Bolin has not made the warning sound, usually that of him running as swiftly as his legs can carry him across the room and into the next to hide under the dinner table—how Mommy has not burst through the door and caught him by his collar—how _nothing has happened_.

Nothing.

Carefully, he withdraws six cookies, one of each year of Bolin's life, and splits each one in half. Crumbs spill to the ground. "Bo, come here." His younger brother stuffs his pieces into his mouth at once, but Mako nibbles on each slowly, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

He draws his scarf up to his nose, breathing Daddy's scent.


	2. Lie

A/N: Life alone, at home, without parents.

Innocence giving way to shades of grey.

Reality. Wood cannot be earthbent, but blocks can be tossed into the air.

Hope. Doorbells ring.

But the cake is a lie.

* * *

That night is the first one in which Mako is the one to crawl silently into his brother's bed instead of the other way around, the young earthbender snuggling into Mako's nest to quell his fear of terrible dreams, his arms grasping for a hand, a thigh, anything to grab and wrap around. But now the older brother is the one with the terrible dream, a dream of a flame consuming Mommy and Daddy and reducing them to shadow.

But they're out getting cake.

They've _got_ to be.

They're getting cake.

Maybe if he repeats it to himself a few hundred times it'll sink in.

Bolin welcomes the warmth, embracing Mako tightly, nuzzling his brother's chest with his head.

The next morning finds them in each other's arms, blissful in cookie-laden slumber, oblivious to the world crashing around them.

The brothers survive on sweets for three days, until rounds of tummy-aches bring Mako to stop the feast and find fruits, meats, rice. The vegetables neither of them touches, and into the trash the green food goes, banished for their bland or bitter taste. There's a thrill to being able to rush about the house, scream as loudly as they want, and tussle on the floor, but after a few days Mako quietly reverts to the good son. "Mommy and Daddy are letting us do this for your birthday," he tells Bolin, "and in a week they'll come back with cake."

Cake.

Getting cake.

On the fifth day, Mako awakens to the realisation that Bolin isn't in bed. His hand curls violently around the scarf; he springs, slipping on the floor, and yells his brother's name over and over, his throat burning, something in his innards coiling and twisting. "Bo!_ Bo! BO!_"

Suddenly he hears the sound of clicking and thumping. Blocks? His toes throbbing from the bumps on the walls and doorways, his knees stinging from the occasional fall, he bursts into the playroom to discover Bolin sitting on the floor, playing with a few wooden blocks and a handful of pebbles. "Look, Mako," his brother chirps happily as he flips one into the air. "I can earthbend blocks!"

"I didn't know you could earthbend wood." He's mostly relieved that Bolin is okay, and he turns towards the door, intent on entering Daddy's study to leaf through a book without pictures and ask him if blocks can be earthbent.

Then he remembers Daddy is gone.

To get cake.

Getting cake.

"You scared me. What do you want for breakfast?"

Bolin blinks at him. "I don't know. Do we have any juice?"

_No_, Mako wants to tell him, _we ran out yesterday_. "I'll see what's in there. And how about some cereal?"

"Okaday." His response is half-stutter. He returns to the blocks, stacking one atop another. "A red one and a green one," he explains, "for you and me. See, the red one's on the green one, 'cause you're older and taller and stronger, and 'cause you'll protect me if anything happens, like Mommy and Daddy."

Mako's heart thumps. "I know, Bo. I will."

"I'm thirsty."

"I know."

Satisfied, he runs to the kitchen , opening the cupboards. Every meal he has to reach in further to find things. There's a reason he hasn't let Bolin pick out food since day three: What was once a bountiful wonderland has turned into a game of hide and seek.

That is the moment he tries to find water and fails.

Armed with a bowl, he steps outside for the first time in almost a week, noticing that the grass isn't as trimmed as it was before, and the flowers are starting to wilt. Perhaps they want water, too. Not for the first time he wants to talk to the neighbours, like he's seen Mommy do sometimes, but the neighbours are loud and scare him, and none of them has any kids his age. Instead he cuts across the lawn out to the backyard, where a little stream burbles at the edge. Daddy warned him not to drink it—it comes from the city—but it looks like a brook from the storybooks. Leaning by its bank, the grass springy under his knees, he cups his hand, holds his scarf away from the rush, and takes a cautious sip. It tastes divine, soothing his dry throat; the bowl is full to the brim and in the playroom before he can consciously make an effort.

Bolin's fingers and face are covered in paint, his clothing streaked and hair tufted with the caked-on remains. _Getting cake_. Mako holds the water out to his little brother. "I'll get you some cereal in a second." The earthbender swallows the liquid, downing half of it at once, and spits it out, his face contorting with disgust.

"Ew! It's got a _taste _to it." Bolin sits down and crosses his pudgy arms. "What is it?"

"It's magic wishing water," he says. He doesn't understand the lie passing his lips. "It tastes yucky but if you drink all of it, you'll get a wish."

"A wish?" His brother drinks the rest. Mako studies the painting. Mommy. Daddy. Him. Bolin. Their names misspelled in a child's handwronging. And a furry red thing on Bolin's shoulders, the pet that Daddy promised they can have as soon as he can afford the other promises he's made to Mommy. Daddy has gotten a pro-mo-shun at _work_. So they can buy cake for Bolin' birthday. _Getting cake._ His heart squeezes. "I wish that Mommy and Daddy could bring the cake home, _right now_."

Mako enfolds his brother in a hug, himself wishing he could hold this moment forever, never let it go, never go back and face the dwindling supplies of food, never recall his _terrible dream_, never having to whisper _getting cake _again, simply feel his brother's heart beating against his own.

But then the moment shatters.

The doorbell.

And Mako hopes with all of his spirit that the occupants of the doorstep have cake.


	3. Run

A/N: Mako in a daze, a dream, a nightmare come to life.

Bars of black and white.

Orphanages are different for those who bend and those who don't.

Those who don't, don't last.

But Mako does.

Even if he hasn't realised it yet.

The Quiet Game. Forever.

* * *

The Quiet Game and a promise of cookies keep Bolin silent while Mako opens the entrance, not quite trusting his own gut even though after part of him says he should.

His hand is sweaty when he pulls on the handle, standing on tiptoe to reach it, and for some reason his heart isn't crushed when the two at the door aren't Mommy and Daddy. A week, he reminds himself. One of them is the teacher at the school, Miss Sho. The other is the sort of tall and dark man his mind immediately labels _stranger danger_. But if his teacher trusts him, Mako supposes he should be trusting, too.

"Good evening, Mako," Miss Sho offers. Her voice is submerged in an emotion he cannot name. "May I come in? Do you know where your parents are?"

He shakes his head, then nods vigorously. "They're out getting cake."

Her eyebrows slant. "Where's your brother, Mako?" The stranger danger man glares at her. "Mako? How long have your parents been gone?"

The stranger danger man interjects, his timbre that of sandpaper. "Get your brother," he growls impatiently. "We're leaving."

Mako stares at him but finds no comfort in the folds of the black coat or the hardened café eyes. "Where are we going? Will Bo—my brother and I come back?" He doesn't feel comfortable telling the stranger danger man his brother's name.

"Yes, of course," Miss Sho says. He knows it's a lie, but a comforting lie nonetheless. "We'll come back, I promise."

Bolin is struggling at the Quiet Game when Mako finds him. He shakes the earthbender, who flails his arms until Mako whispers, "You win the Game. You can get all of the cookies left in the jar." He doesn't say that there _are_ no more cookies left in the jar. "My teacher is here. She's going to take us somewhere for dinner, and then we'll come back."

His little brother pouts. "Promise we'll come back?"

"I promise." More empty words, as empty as Mako's insides. Everything feels unreal, moving sluggishly as if in a dream. There is no way he actually pulls Bolin into the kitchen, no way he crosses the boundary of the doorway, no way he gets into his teacher's satomobile, the stranger danger man taking the front.

There is no way in the world, unless he's died and now finds himself in the Spirit World.

Fortunately a fidgety Bolin is soothed by the vehicle's constant motion, and soon he is snoring softly, his tiny body bumping up and down slightly with each movement of the satomobile. For Mako, the same movement keeps him awake long enough to hear Miss Sho and the stranger danger man speaking quietly.

"I wish we didn't have to do this."

"There's a cereal killer on the loose. What are we supposed to do?"

Mako wonders what cereal has to do with the situation. It must be code for something.

The teacher sounds fretful. "Do we have to separate the two? They're brothers."

His pulse stops for a moment; then he understand that _separate_ must be coding for something, too. Not separate as in to set apart. Never that.

"It's cruel."

"Life is cruel, ma'am. Always cruel."

The satomobile pulls up in front of a looming building with columns in the front that appear more like bars. He's reminded of the storybooks with pictures of jails, the windows covered with similar bars, a feature he doesn't understand. Windows are freedom. Why mar them with bars? The stranger danger man opens the vehicle door roughly.

"You, earthbender, go with me," the stranger danger man barks. "Ma'am, take the _nonbender_." The word leaves his mouth as if it were poison. He grabs Bolin, who bites the man's hand.

"_Stranger danger!_" he squeals. The stranger danger man's beady eyes narrow, and he almost lifts a hand, but he puts it down.

Mako squeezes Bolin's shoulder. "You're not really going to _se-pa-rate_ us, are you?" His question comes off more meekly than expected.

"Do we have to?" Miss Sho frowns. "They're so _young_."

"City rules, ma'am. No one wants to pick through nonbenders to find the benders they want." The man's claws tighten around Bolin's collarbone. The young boy whimpers, his expression one of terror. "You, nonbender. Take off that ratty thing about your neck. It looks diseased."

His blood turned to ice, Mako stops cold, gazing at the stranger danger man with an odd feeling in his centre, a sudden flame threatening to burn him away, and he pushes it down. His skin crawls. "No, you don't understand. This was D-daddy's."

"Take it off." The stranger danger man advances, reaching for the scarf.

Bolin cries out abruptly, wrenching away from the man and falling to the ground. The sound breaks the ice in Mako's veins, replacing it with a blazing heat. His hand is on fire. Warmth. Flame. Inferno. Smoke. Ash. His eyes burn, and he kneels on the broken ground disorientated, but his brother's hand slides into his. Cursing fills the air; the stone under him shakes; and he flashes to the earthquake when he was two and a half, his brother yet in Mommy's tummy, the following morning finding furrows in the street and the flowerbeds destroyed. "It's the spirits' way of spring cleaning," Daddy told him. "Giving us a chance to push out the old and make ourselves anew."

So is this. He pushes out the old and makes himself anew, screaming for Bolin to run. Nothing exists but Bolin's palm, the pain in his legs, the shivering that never ends, the yells of _he's a bender_, the beat of bare feet on rock. No, not of bare feet, the beat of his heart roaring in his ears.

He runs until he can't remember his own name, runs until his brother collapses next to him and sobs, runs until all he can taste is metal.

And the darkness cloaks him in its sweet relief, his brother safe in his arms.


	4. Fast

A/N: Once upon a time, Bolin referred to breakfast in a manner most Australian, but unfortunately Australia exists not in the Avaverse.

A rain of truth. The fire flickers under the deluge. The earth is only worn away gradually.

Firebending. Fuelled by anger and hate. But love and peace shall come in time.

* * *

First light. A golden glow hovers behind his eyelids, and he becomes aware of the gravel pressing into his face, the weary ache in his limbs, the pain in his ribs when he breathes. Bolin snuggles closer to him, each soft snore a present in its own right. Mako smells the ash on his scarf overpowering the scent of Daddy; it terrifies him, and his rapid heartbeat causes his brother to stir.

Before he can awaken, Mako rises, cataloguing the surroundings and making note of where they are: An alleyway of some sort, his neck cramping from being pressed up against a stone wall for so long. He mutters a quick thank-you to the spirits, as Mommy taught him to do. Bolin's stomach rumbles audibly, his older brother's responding a minute later. His hand twitches, and a flash of fire filling his palm drifts across his mind.

"C-cold," his brother mumbles in his sleep, his breathing becoming irregular, and Mako crouches next to him, flexing the fingers of his right hand, trying to bring back that feeling of warmth. Wrapping the scarf more tightly around his neck, he thinks of the stranger danger man who has thankfully not followed them. That thing in his innards twists and coils, and an angry heat, a rage he has never sensed before, builds in his chest, enlarging in spirals with every inhalation and exhalation. It spreads throughout his body, humming with strength and potential, scaring him even as it empowers him. Hesitantly Mako holds his hand out, scarcely daring to breath, and concentrates the core of his being into his palm, grunting out, "_Hnah!_" After a moment of nothing, of crushing disappointment, he feels the heat and sees the shadows cast off by the lick of flame curling around his fingers.

"Daddy." The word is almost silent. "I'm like you."

His voice comforts him, but his brother settling back into a steady rhythm, guided by the warmth from the fire, comforts him infinitely more.

His stomach growls again. Mako carefully, quietly, instinctively drags Bolin to the end of the alley, shrugging off his outer layer of clothing and covering his brother with it, leaving himself only the scarf and his pyjamas to keep warm. Then he thinks of breakfast. He doesn't know where home is, but it's nowhere around here, though he does recognise the sounds of a nearby bazaar or flea market. Breakfast.

"Bo, I'll be right back." He turns to leave, but his brother's abrupt gasp is enough to stop him.

"Don't go away." Bolin lurches to his feet, knocking into Mako, and shakes his head, his messy hair flying every which way. A catlike grin graces his lips. "I want to come with you. Are we going on an adventure?"

Mako swallows. Getting cake. "Yes, Bo, an adventure."

The earthbender claps. "Let's go!" He touches his hand to his belly. "After eating, please." The last word is pronounced _pweash_.

"Come on. There's a bazaar right around the corner."

Bolin giggles. "That sounds weird."

He takes his brother's hand. "Come _on_, Bo. Ssh. Can you play the Quiet Game?"

The bazaar takes them a few minutes to reach. Mako avoids the main streets: A voice in his head instructs him not to be seen, les the stranger danger man return. Bolin fidgets, walking away several times, but his brother tightens his hold, refusing to let the earthbender from his sight. A cacophony of colour greets him, as does an impenetrable fortress of sound, ranging from the hawking of wares to the loud bartering of a sale about to be made. Pieces of paper or coins are passed about. His mind vaguely connects them to cost, but his hunger and Bolin's insistence bring him to cautiously approach a fruit vendor, a young girl wearing a torn red dress and adorned with a phoenix tail, her fingers curled around the handle of an unwieldy wooden cart. Her piercing golden eyes reveal a kindness behind them.

His younger brother grabs one of the ash bananas, but the girl slaps him and returns the banana to her cart. "I wanted that!" Bolin looks as though he's about to throw a tantrum; Mako knows that _nothing _can stop his brother once he gets going. "I'm hungry. I haven't eaten in _fifty years_! A _hundred_! I was just woken up from an _iceberg_!"

"Whoa, there, Avatar Aang," the girl replies with a smile. "You want food, you have to pay."

"Pay?" Mako echoes. "With what?"

He doesn't like her expression, a combination of disgust and pity, directed at him. "With yuans. Money. You know. Are you stupid?"

"We don't have any yuans." He's aware of his brother's tempest about to unfurl and rage across the land. "Please? One banana, and we'll leave you in peace."

The girl snorts and pushes her cart menacingly towards the brothers. "Get out of my way and stop wasting my time." Her voice doubles in volume, the personality drained and replaced with a professional cold. "Fruit! Fruit! Ash bananas, moon peaches, blood oranges, fresh from the vine, fresh from the tree! Fruit! Fruit!"

Bolin stomps his foot. "Mako, I'm hungry. I'm so hungry I could eat an entire _veggie_." His nose wrinkles, the tempest for a moment averted. "Well, not a veggie. _But you know what I mean_."

Mako does, but he wishes he didn't. He wishes Daddy could hug him, right now, and tell him what to do.

But Daddy can't.

He has to be the strong one now, for his brother.

"I'm hungry."

"I know. _Run_."

Listening to him for once, the earthbender dives for the nearest exit, and Mako lowers his eyelids until he can feel his eyelashes brush his skin. "I'm sorry."

The girl notices the stolen fruit only after she counts her profits for the day and realises she no longer has enough for the rent.

Several blocks away, two brothers split an armful of ash bananas, the grey skins dropping to the ground like their dreams.


	5. Speak

A/N: Bolin, no longer blind, not yet seeing.

Getting cake?

A recurring character introduced.

* * *

Mako seeks help from those on the street, but the passers-by pay him as much notice as they would a pesky spiderfly. Bolin senses something is wrong and says little, content—or scared into—simply sitting quietly on a bench while his brother tries to ask, plea, and beg, anything he can.

Nothing works, though a few kindlier folks toss him spare change. He hopes the meagre collection of copper and silver pieces will be enough to tide them over for the day, though he knows it won't be.

For lunch he filches a fish when the merchant looks away for a moment, attention diverted, poised to an arguing customer or the loud wailing of a child found abandoned in a crate of sea prunes. At first he finds it difficult to remove the skin the scales biting into his fingers and bloodying his palms, but a hint of firebending is able to strip it, revealing the succulent meat underneath. It does not smell as it should, yet his attempts to cook it result in blackened stone. Feet tapping against the leg of the bench, the statue of Fire Lord Zuko towering above them, Bolin crunches the meal, squirming, the sadness not yet washing over his body but threatening to drop over the lip of the cup.

"Are you sure they're getting cake?"

"Yes."

The sickening crack of fish bone. "It had better be good cake," the earthbender mumbles to himself. "I wish Mommy and Daddy were here." Crunch. "I miss them. I love them."

That livid fury explodes in Mako, his core temperature spiking, smoke furling about his fingers. "_Stop talking about them!_" he snaps, flames trickling from the corners of his mouth, his scarf choking him. He digs his nails into the fabric, pulling it away from his skin, his eyes wide and wild, glaring at his brother, whose mouth is open, his heartbeat audible in his fear, his chest thrumming with quick and shallow breaths. "_Stop it! I don't want to hear it! I never want to hear it again!_" Pain wells up at the edges of his eyes; hot wetness stings his cheeks, salty on his lips. "_Shut up!_"

Hugging himself, Mako spins around, panting heavily, sweat beading his brow. If he presses hard enough, he can feel sharp ridges along his sides; his instincts inform him this is a terrible thing.

"M-mako . . . ?"

The word is a spear of ice that slices through him, piercing his heart. Steeped in sorrow, hurt, and confusion, it tells a thousand stories in one, but the tale that juts out the most is that of a grieving child too young to understand the storm gathering on the horizon but too old for naivety to protect him, the age at which innocence has only begun to give way to realism in the tiniest of ways, the time in which black and white mingles to grey, then radiates into colour, a child trying to make sense of the world and failing, trying to institute his own fantasies and failing, trying to reconcile the difference and failing again.

And the only person up to whom he can look is currently screaming at him, fire burning his throat, lungs suffocating from the ash.

Mako falls to the ground, the rage collapsing inside of him. His hands glide over smooth earth mixed with jagged pieces of concrete, broken bottles, and the remains of take-out containers, his left heel chilled from the wind blowing across the naked sole; he doesn't recall the shoe dropping off. "I'm sorry." His voice is empty, hollow, devoid of emotion. "I'm so sorry."

Warmth around his waist and on his back. Bolin nuzzles his brother between the shoulder blades. "It's okay. I was scared, brother. I don't ever want you to do that again, but I don't know what I did wrong." He rests his chin on Mako's shoulder. "Please forgive me. I don't want you to be mad at me!"

"I'm not mad at you." His fingers curl around his brother's. "You should be the one to forgive me."

"I'll stop talking about the cake if you want." Bolin's volume drops to the whisper of the breeze on their lawn from the ancient days of the childhood of a boy named Mako, but not _Mako_. "And . . ." He hesitates. "And about Mommy and Daddy.

"Mako, are they really getting cake?"

The older brother ignores the question. He reaches for the half-eaten fish yet discovers a murder of lizard crows devouring it, ripping the meat apart with their serrated beaks and reddened talons. The largest, his left leg missing the foot, stares at Mako defiantly, daring him to reclaim his prize.

"It's okay. I'm not hungry," Bolin offers. They both know it's a lie by the growls of their stomachs. "We can get more later."

Swallowing, the firebender embraces his brother and leads him away to the other side of the statue. To his surprise he sees an unattended box of fried possum chicken on the top. No one is around save for a group of teenagers passing an object between them, and none of them is likely to be the owner of the food. Without a sound he grasps the container and retreats to the darkness, gazing at the older kids. A few of them glance his way.

"That street rat just—"

"It's scraps, Kuro. Shut up."

"—stole my box. Whatever."

Bolin readily accepts the bits of skin left over from the teenagers' repast. Mako leans over to remove a leaf from his brother's hair, watching him eat with a subdued silence. "Bo, I love you." It is almost as though this will be the last time he will have the opportunity to say that.

The earthbender grins; Mako doesn't understand how a smile could be possible in their environment. "I love you too, Mako."

His brother's weight in his arms is all for which he asks.

But for that, he asks.


	6. Ice

A/N: Written word in the past, spoken word in the future.

Chill kills. Truth in fiction.

Mako need not worry: Bolin's blood type is B positive.

* * *

Routine.

Mornings pass the most rapidly. Bolin is asleep when Mako seeks breakfast, rooting in dumpsters, nicking from the bazaar, stealing abandoned items. He never thinks of himself as a thief, and he knows he won't be caught: The spirits are looking out for them. Still, he prefers to take what has been left, not what will be used.

By the time his little brother is awake, fruit or leftovers or—on rare occasion—heated meat greets him on some days. On others, his stomach rumbles until lunch or even dinner, and on a few he returns to slumber without a bite at all.

Even though Bolin is six, he rarely complains. A scary stillness has settled over him. No, not stillness. Optimism. An optimism that blinds him to the bad and opens his eyes to the good. Warm, hug, delicious, play, brother. Words that pepper his dialogue like a virus, spreading through his entire body, burying his hurts, fears, and aches in another terror.

Mako isn't sure if his brother truly is this optimistic or if he is merely afraid of provoking the firebender's rage. He hopes it is the former.

Afternoons are sluggish. Bolin practices his bending, his every accomplishment buoyed by words of encouragement and shouts of success. A pebble. Two. Three. Rocks that zoom around. Careful constructions of soil.

Once, he finds a glimmering black screw from a satomobile, the thread thin and winding but broad enough to be traced with a fingernail. In the darkness, Mako feels Bolin remove it from his pocket and marvel at the construction, often trying to bend it and failing, sometimes pressing it into his brother's hand and begging him to admire its simplicity, its basic design, and its power.

The nights are the worst. They shelter under the statue of Fire Lord Zuko, the fire constantly burning in his outstretched hand a needed beacon of light and hope. Mako learns to ignore the stench of lizard crow droppings and their own dirty clothing, pretends not to hear the stinging remarks of those older and more fortunate than he—even if he only understands the message by the tone and the tautness of the jawline—and refuses to believe that he once had a life outside of this one.

Getting.

Cake.

It becomes less of a lie and more of a legend. Maybe if he says it enough times, it will come true.

But it doesn't.

It never will.

Protected from the chill and the wet by his brother's form around him, the earthbender misses being rocked by Mommy, and he wishes he could ride in a satomobile. "It feels almost the same," he explains, his face tucked into Mako's armpit to hide from the monsters of the night, his words lost in the folds of the scarf wound around them both. "Mako, can you rock me?"

His arms hurt, but he gently sways, stopping after he hears Bolin's snoring, the sweetest sound he has ever heard. A fire dances in his hand, the shadows blurring the filth of their new home into smooth.

Time passes, the day melting into each other. The clouds weep bitters tears of a grief alien to his heart, a grief he will not comprehend for years down the path, a grief that leaves scars in his spirit and rips him in half. Worse than the rainfall is the old, the never-ending cold. At least his firebending offers them some consolation. The others, children as lost as the brothers, slip away in the darkness, their eyes—the first to defrost—pecked out by morn, the lizard crows starting on the soft flesh of the cheeks and throat once the thin barrier of cold is gone.

The scarf shields Bolin from the worst, but Mako forces himself to look at the rivulets blood trickling from the mouths, listen to the moans of those sickened with fever, smell the decay on their bodies before they perish, a smell not unlike that lingering on the brothers' rotting, loose clothes. All of the dead are sad, but the saddest are the littlest ones, their skins pale as the spirits departed from this world, their gazes frozen to the sky, their swollen lips slightly parted as if in prayer or calling out to loved ones, to Mommies and Daddies waiting for their precious flowers to join them. Fingers curl around stalks of grass peeking through the snow and cement or claw at throats tinged blue with bruises brought of desperation in dehydration.

On the street, he muses, one bends, or one dies.

Water is easy to come by. If it does not rain, dew covers the grass, and if that fails, the snow comes with increasing frequency, and heat funnelled from flame brings cool liquid to the dryness in their mouths. He worries of summer, but he is certain he will find a way.

He _will _find a way, for his brother.

Bolin helps. With his angelic face, innocent eyes, and cattish smile, he attracts offerings of coin and cooking, cautiously set down by kindly women. It aids him to wear the scarf, absurdly long for his stature, short for his age of merely six, and to take on earthbending stances or make overtly cute observations befitting a toddler of two. Anything works, and the rags hide the ribs, ruining the picture painstakingly perfected to please the passers-by.

The lizard crow with the missing foot mocks Mako, morning or midnight. Obviously, he is the leader of the murder, his caws commands for his kin to heed, the V-like pink across his otherwise black-feathered chest an easy marker for identification. He takes Bolin's charity with gusto—Mako is sure the bird's nest is lined with glittering gold—and swipes meals about to be collected by the firebender.

After a time Mako reverts to stealing from others. It's easier and quicker for him, and it finds them food that fills.

He does not believe that he will be caught until he is.


	7. Saved

A/N: The eagle from Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, incarnated here as a lizard crow.

Winter is coming. A song of rock and fire.

A chi-blocker or a triad-hawker?

* * *

"What do you think you are _doing_?"

She is short, round, dark-skinned, more serpent than woman, and her nails dig into the skin of his wrist with a grip too powerful to be human. Her half-cooked fish caught in his hand, Mako stares at her with hollowed eyes, his cheeks pale as the snow swirling around in flurries simultaneously beautiful and deadly. From the corner of his vision he can see the top of the statue of Fire Lord Zuko in the distance, where Bolin awaits dinner.

"Food," he answers. "Please. My brother's six; he's hungry."

He initially assumed her eyes were black as night, checking her off as a villain of his daily struggle, but with a start he sees a flash of brightest blue instead. "On the street, huh? So you had to take my spiritdamned fish?" She snags it back, wrenching it out of his grasp. "Get your own."

His stomach growls. Desperately, Mako slumps to the ground, the gravel digging into his knees, a motley pattern of raw flesh and scab. "We haven't eaten in three days," he pleads. Although he despises begging, his brother falling asleep on a full stomach is more vital than anything else to him. "I can do a favour for you. I'm a firebender, and my brother is—"

In an instant the woman's fierce expression softens. "Both of you are benders?" she inquires kindly. "Both?"

The sudden change in mood scares him more than the threat of starvation. Earnestly he swallows his apprehension and nods cautiously, his fingers enclosing around the scales. "Like this." The fish heats under his touch, the aroma wafting through the heavy autumn-winter air. "See?"

The woman smiles widely, but her eyes remain the same. "I'm always in need of new benders." Her voice is sincere; her gaze isn't. "Where is your brother? You said he was six? How about I help both of you out? Benders are . . . special, after all."

"Help?" Mako repeats dubiously. Several children and a feral viper cat rush by, their spindly legs and jutting bones betraying the fact that they will not last to see spring. "You're not going to try to separate my brother and me, are you?"

Quickly, almost too quickly, the woman shakes her head. "Of course not, darling," she gushes, her arms folding across her chest. "I only want to help. Help is all. A warm bed, safety, and hot food's what I could get you, at least until you get back on your feet and are ready to move on to real work."

His first instinct is to shout _no_ and sprint away as rapidly as possible. But the past few nights have been cold enough that he wasn't able to keep both himself and Bolin from the chill, and he's worried that his brother's slight cough could turn into something much more serious. The offer might save their lives; he's heard the stories of the world-weary and ravenous children walking into the snowdrifts and snoozing as their spirits froze away, including the benders.

He promised Bolin he would protect him. Brothers forever.

"And you won't ask anything in return?"

The woman beams, holding up the fish with a hint of a compromise: _Return to me, and you get it. _ "Only that you listen to me. And, in a few years, perhaps you could help _me _out. If you don't run away before then like morons." Morons doesn't pass her lips, but he blocks out what she truly says, his mind flagging it as a phrase not to be repeated.

Trust is not the word to use here. Honestly he trusts her about as much as he trusts the scarred lizard crow. Yet the streets and the incoming frigid weather spell certain death. If she turns out to lying, Mako always has his firebending, and Bolin's earthbending would prove useful as well.

"Bo, come on." His hand cupped hovers over his mouth. The earthbender stops his game of street pro, the handful of other children playing scattering as elephant mice before the koala wolf.

"Hi brother." Bolin grins and races to hug his brother tightly around the midsection. "Did you find dinner?"

Mako hopes Bolin can't count the rapid thrum of his heartbeat. "Kind of. A friend of Mommy and Daddy's is going to help us. She said that she couldn't stand to see two kids live off the street."

"What friend?" He cocks his head, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

The firebender inhales to calm his jolting nerves. "She's nice." He doesn't remember her name, or if she gave him one. "I think she's a waterbender. Come on Bo. It's the best chance we've got."

His little brother tugs Mako closer. "You're warm," he murmurs into the scarf. "I don't want to leave. Everything is fine."

"No, Bo. Winter is coming." Mako frowns and feels Bolin's stomach with his palm, tears welling behind his eyelids for the sharpness of the ribs. "We have to. It's the only way. The _only_ way." He lowers himself until their gazes are equal. "Don't you trust me?"

"Forever and always." The reply comes without a moment's hesitation; trust _is_ the word to use here. And love. That too.

"Always and forever," the firebender adds. His hand squeezes his brother's. "Now come on. I promise that tomorrow will look a lot better."

The woman is in the same spot, and she has two steaming bowls of noodles for them. The glow in Bolin's cheeks at the purest form of happiness is more than Mako could ever want. Her thick fingers chain them to her when she leads them through the dark streets, away from the strange familiarity of the statue and towards an unknown future.

Watching his brother's simple joy, Mako knows he has made the right decision.

Yet he glances back at the final instant and sees the lizard crow with the missing foot, once more cawing at him.

This time, however, it sounds like an alarm.


	8. Soft

A/N: The fire comes in the winter of despair. The trio appears in the spring of hope.

A sparrowkeet is born.

For one moment, everyone is perfect. And then that moment ends.

* * *

The man is sitting on the desk reading a newspaper emblazoned with the words, _First airbender born in Republic City. Air Temple Island rejoices_. When the door clicks, the beast glances up, and the black and white paper slips away to reveal a gentleman's magazine hidden underneath.

The man licks his lips.

Mako doesn't like him at all, and his fingers protectively latch onto Bolin's collarbone.

His nostrils burn from the incensed air; his ears ring from the loud music. "Well, well, well, what have we here?" the dark-haired beast purrs. "You've done well this time, Nani."

"One's six, the other's eight." The woman crosses her arms and snorts smoke; Mako is surprised it isn't water vapour. "The Agni Kais can't go wrong with some fresh blood to slake your spiritdamned lust."

Unfolding himself from his position, the man, his hair bobbing at his shoulders, slides up towards the brothers, a vicious smirk on his crimson mouth. The beast's erect shoulders and twined muscles remind Mako of a leopard shark about to spring onto his prey, and he edges backwards, pulling his brother behind him. Bolin's nose wrinkles. The firebender can feel the question forming on the earthbender's lips. "Why do you smell like a girl?"

The man laughs coldly. "Because I can afford to." Without fully knowing why, Mako squirms uncomfortably as the beast openly inspects him before moving on to Bolin. Finally he turns back to the woman. Nani. "Six and eight, did you say?"

"Yes, six and eight. Give them the winter to adjust. They can be put to service in the spring, when the junkies clamour." The firebender isn't sure what _junkies_ means; nonetheless, he is thankful they will be grant several months' reprieve, and he is certain he will be able to retake to the street after a stretch here.

"Not only the junkies." Some of the sleaze is gone from the beast's timbre, swapped with a menacing business-like apathy. "The older one looks like he'd be popular with our most valued customers. The younger one would be pleasing to the—"

Bolin breaks in. "I can do lots of stuff!" he bursts out. In a flash the screw appears from his pocket. He tosses it and catches it in his other hand, trading it for a handful of smooth pebbles selected from the rubble on the roads. Using earthbending, he levitates the stones in a circle between his palms, peeking up at the beast to gauge any reaction. "I got lots of food and stuff like this. People loved it! If you let me stay I'll give you _everything_ that's not tasty."

His head thrown back, the beast shudders as spasms of snorting rack his body. The mirth unnerves Mako. "An earthbender? As long as he doesn't show it, he's cute," the man growls, dipping his head. "They'll all want him. Take them away and make sure they're fattened for the spring run." Too quickly to be opposed, the man prods the brothers' ribs, the contact leaving a vaguely white stain on Mako's shirt. "I don't want to see them until they're ready for business. But when they are—" He makes a circle with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand and running the forefinger of his right several times through it as though threading a needle. "—I'll decide if they're hot or not. Go!"

The firebender isn't sure what to do: Bolin seems unusually at-ease and the steaming bowls of rice and, for the first time in weeks, well-done slices of _meat_ clinch the deal for him. The tiny room in which they feast does not reveal much about their new temporary housing. Still, his stomach gurgles contently. His brother can't stop smiling, the grin crinkling the skin around his vibrant eyes. Nani watches them wolf down their dinners, not caring to make any noise whatsoever when they eat. Upon finishing, the brothers are led through a mostly empty warehouse, passing boxes and boxes of unlabelled goods, the overhead lights flickering as they swing heavily from side to side, the pale shadows pooling in the crevices. Muscular men glare at them every so often, their faces blank masks of unreal anger, as if they were born of the same mould copied in multiple colours. The first few are made the butt of Bolin's jests, his clever mind finding a way to lighten the mood—"Hey, it's a waterbender. Bet he's pretty _cool_."—but by the time the main chamber is traversed, his little brother, too, has fallen silent.

Nani kicks a door open. A wave of dust washes over him, but he stumbles forward into the little "bedroom" complete with a pair of cots and blankets galore. Although he knows he should not trust the world with the cruelty it has shown him on his time on the streets, it's the pillows, fluffy and brightly tinted, that cause him to cry out in delete, and within moments he and his brother have fallen upon them.

The light has never been so soft.

"Stay here tonight. I'll wake you up tomorrow." He hears the words but not the meaning. His entire consciousness is centred on the colour and the softness and the warmth of his brother next to him and beside him and on top of him and below him and in his arms, now, cocooned in the safety of the cushions, his eyelids fluttering, heavy with sleep.

Bolin tucks his head under Mako's chin, curling up at the firebender's side, his hands winding themselves anywhere they can reach, desperate to be as close to his older brother as possible. "Things are going to be better, right brother?" he murmurs drowsily.

Mako strokes Bolin's hair, the constant motion comforting him. "Yes, Bo, they are. I love you."

"I love you too."

For the first time in weeks, he falls asleep without wondering if he will see the sunrise.

Instead, he falls asleep wondering if he will wake up early enough.


	9. Ash

A/N: Interlude before the phoenix rises.

Tomorrow, grief will pool.

Along with tears.

Treasure Planet requests its line returned.

The woman of ashes is called by that name.

* * *

Her name is Hai. Her raven hair is swept back into a red and gold hairpiece, the only hint of a distantly wealthy past on her person, and her feminine curves reveal nothing of the hardship she has endured. Yet her eyes, amber as jewels and hardened as diamonds, betray the fires always attempting to spring free and burn down her entire world.

Mako has long noticed that the vast majority of people in the area are firebenders; a few are nonbenders; and perhaps three or four water or earthbenders guard specific parts of the mostly uncharted warehouse. Charged with showing them around, Hai is unusual in several respects. First, she doesn't lie about anything. If Mako inquires on any subject, she answers as curtly as possible. Secondly, she is the most apathetic woman, or man, he has ever met in his entire life. Thirdly, she is undeniably pregnant.

When she came to get them the first day, the brothers thought she was bringing them breakfast. Then she threw the rags at their feet.

"If you're going to eat," she snarled, "you're going to work. Say hello to your closest friends, Mister Bucket and Miss Mop."

Now, as Mako runs the wet rag over the floor and stares at the bedraggled child looking back at him from the swipe of water, he wonders if he made the right decision about taking up Nani on her offer. Of course he did. Another swipe. Dip in the bucket. The chill of the liquid makes him wince. Swipe again. Clean at last.

Hai watches them. Much like Nani, she usually stands with her arms crossed, a mask of neutrality cast on her features. "You should never have come here." Her comment is matter-of-fact, straight, direct. "I don't know what you proved by showing up. Except for your idiocy and willingness to die."

Bolin stands up abruptly, wriggling his arms and legs. "Know what's stupid?" He sniffles. "This! I have a better idea."

"And what's that, Mechanist?" Hai quizzes dryly. "Going to reinvent the hot hair balloon?"

He giggles. "What if I tied the scrubs to my feet and danced around in them? I like running around."

Her eyes glisten dark as coals for an instant. Mako stiffens.

"Fine."

A sigh of relief collapses him, and he returns to steadily wiping the dusty ground while his brother rushes around the warehouse asking for string from any and all. Within seconds he is returned, his toes wiggling in Mako's face. "Can you tie it please? _Pweash_?" Bolin's sheepish smile brings one to his own face, and he sets himself to work, fingers readily taking to the needed motions, remembering the many times he would help Mommy with readying his brother for the day.

The thought of Mommy chills his blood. He doesn't realise he's passed out until he comes to a few moments later, Bolin and Hai peering at him, one concerned and yelling, the other silently masquerading a façade of not caring whatsoever.

The woman slaps his face. Mako's cheek stings where her palm touched, fire burning the flesh of his face. It dissipates before he can register the pain; the full agony rushes after he tries to sit up. "Never do that again," Hai commands, rubbing her arms. "Because next time, I will murder you mercilessly. Do I make myself clear?"

Mako bows his head. He becomes aware of the sweat beading on his forehead and running down his back between his shoulder blades. Half-nervously and half-sadly, he turns his head to his brother, biting his lower lip. "Mako? Are you okay?"

"I think." Increasingly he feels as though a stone has beaten his brains out in a pulp on the floor, and he shakes his head, trying to clear it.

"Finish your cleaning." Hai's words are emotionless as granite, but a molten line of magma through the centre causes him to rush towards the bucket more swiftly than a bolt of lightning.

Reverting to sweeping the ground with his rag-bound feet, Bolin nudges her. "Are you grumpy because you ate too much?" he question, his eyes glittering. "Or are you having a baby?"

"I'm not grumpy at all. Get away from me." Her eyebrows draw close, her brow furrowed.

But the earthbender doesn't listen; instead, he gently strokes her stomach. "I think that mommies need to be nice. Mommy is. She's getting cake for me. She'll come back, like my brother told me she would." He beams, his cheeks glowing. "Are you going to be a good mommy? I know you will. I know you!"

Mako blinks as Hai's mask breaks for a moment. With an expression of shock, she looks away, swivelling about on her heel. "Your mommy's not getting cake." Her voice is hoarse and muffled, a lump caught in her throat, a lump Mako understands. "And if you don't leave by winter's end, you'll never get cake either."

"There's a winter every year," Bolin observes. "Are we supposed to leave every winter? Daddy taught me that some people don't like winter because it's cold and everything is dead, but that winter is really a time of re-_growth_." He sounds the last word out, Mako moving his lips along with his brother's speech, recognising it. "Summer is when things start to die, but we don't notice it until autumn. Winter is when life begins in the littlest of places, places so itty bitty we can't see them. But it's there." He pokes her belly. "Like here. And when it's ready to blossom, it's vibrant and alive, and we see the fruits of our—of our—"

"Of our labour." He has forgotten the sound of Daddy's voice, yet he hears it through the childish tones of Bolin's.

Hai's response is silence, but Mako notes the tears glistening on her cheeks, embers in a field of snow.

The next day she brings them breakfast and tells them they have three months.

Frost plunges the world into sleep.

The lizard crow calls.


	10. Beast

A/N: A tenth chapter anniversary. [clinks glass]

And the world shall turn to ash.

Mako, cool under fire, was born of winter; Bolin, naive as a new leaf, of spring.

* * *

In the midst of the frozen world, there is a flash of fire.

In the midst of the howling winter, Mako's birthday whispers past.

In the last snowfall of the season, he realises that he now is nine and must be even stronger for his still six-year-old brother, currently asleep in his embrace.

Mako's left arm is trapped in the hollow of Bolin's neck, but his right is free to stroke his brother's hair. With the thunderstorm raging outside, he knows he, too, would curl and go to sleep in his parents' arms if he could. At least Hai is with them, perched on a cushion, her hand following the curve of her belly. "Another week or two," she replied when the earthbender became curious. "But it could be today." Not _today_ today. _Today_ she is unusually quiet, devoid of her snark, her normally piping-hot breakfast reduced to some cold white rice. Neither Mako nor Bolin remembers how to complain, so none does. Yet the atmosphere of unease hangs over them, the electric charge of the lightning outside spinning webs of blue and gold behind his eyelids, transforming into the white of a blizzard, the frost upon a lake, the pale shade of Daddy's skin just before—

Gritting his teeth, he forces the memory to slide back into the poisoned pool beneath his mind and stay there, roiling with the others in a never-ending story to see which one will surface. Hai makes a noise, the first she has all morning. "I'm tired of lying to you. _They_ told me to keep my mouth shut. But you need to know. Today," she announces suddenly. For a moment, Mako assumes she means the baby, but it's a different sort of emotion on her harsh features. "Today, you two need to run. _He_ is going to get you, mark my words. It's closing in on spring, and the spring runs will start."

"I keep hearing that word." Mako is surprised at how composed he is, as though a year in age has abruptly turned him a thousand times wiser. "But I do not know what it means."

"Don't you know why you're here?" She fixes her cold gaze on him; he feels it burrowing through his spirit when he glances away. "Of course they didn't say." He shakes his head. "The Agni Kais work with prostitution. Every winter, they collect children from the streets who are pretty enough to attract the attention of certain _trash_." Mako's eyes widen, his heart sinking into his stomach. The words have yet to click, but Hai's tone murmurs of dangerous beasts lurking in the shadows, waiting for the fire to extinguish for an instant, attacking without warning and devouring without mercy. "Take benders, which are prestigious. Sell them to the rich men who can buy their own laws. Those men? They're going to _rape you. _I should have warned you earlier." Her fingers press into the fabric of her dress as though the wrinkled lines were bands of platinum protecting her child. "I can't do anything. They would take all I have away from me."

The ground is no longer beneath him, a pit of darkness roiling instead. Truthfully Mako believes he has passed out again, because there is no way their chance of reclaiming their lives has been a sham. _Stranger danger_. The phrase echoes in his mind, bounding and rebounding on the edges of his conscious. "They're going to _sell us_?" His breathing moves more quickly, his heart a sun-maddened ostrich horse with a river always out of reach. "Why didn't you stop us from coming here? Why aren't you stopping all of this?"

"She can't." The beast's roar awakens Bolin, who snaps from Mako's arms, his expression one of indignant annoyance. Yet the firebender's heart has ceased to beat, swapped with a body made of immotile ice. "I thought better of you, Hai. Looks like a break from whoring has made you soft. Slut." His red mouth curves into a smirk. "Nani, restrain her."

The formerly kind woman has been transformed into a terrible monster of smoke and ash. "With pleasure," she grunts, flames spilling from her palms. Everything moves quickly, too quickly, and Hai falls back, Nani's claws about her wrists, her amber eyes cast down, glazed over, as if the Spirit World has come all too soon for her.

"What are you doing?" Bolin steps forward, and Mako's name returns to him. A fire springs into life; he stares at the beast, his emotions sunk into a vortex, his every muscle quivering and trained to protect his brother should anything happen. "Why are you hurting Hai? Get away from her!"

The beast sniggers icily, a sound not unlike that of the lizard crow's caws. "I'm testing my wares for my dear clients. Come here, bitch." He raises his hand, a whip of flame snaking from his fingers, and cracks it at the earthbender, who throws up a wall of rock, evading the inferno for seconds prior to being caught between the wall and the evil thing's hip. "So you want to play? All the better."

Time freezes into place, the final word of the beast's drawn out. An otherworldly darkness seeps through Mako's chest and limbs, and though he almost fights it, his brother's yelp of pain and panic is enough to send him over the edge. The heat in his cupped palm blazes forth with all of his strength, collapsing him to the floor, slicing through the air, about to incinerate the beast, but the evil thing coolly lifts his arm, and the fires disappear as though they never were.

_Getting cake_.

Bolin screams—the beast leans in, hunger splayed across his face—and a flame arcs across the room, knocking the evil thing aside. As the earthbender leaps for Mako's embrace, Hai, an unconscious Nani at her feet, coughs from the smoke surrounding her.

Pure malice darkens the beast's eyes. "You traitorous whore!"

She gazes calmly at Mako.

"_Run_."


	11. Stone

A/N: No prostitution. Yet.

Ashes coat the child but not the life.

Small instances of canine laanguage.

* * *

His claws curled into a fist of fire, the beast strikes her. Her cry of pain generates motion in Mako, making a dash towards the door, Bolin behind him. "You're dead, _bitch_." The phrase causes the firebender to turn around for a moment, his own betrayal—his running away—bitter on his tongue. Hai has crumpled to the floor, her arms dangling at inhuman angles, blood trickling down her legs as her stomach shudders.

"What—have—you—done—to—me?" she gasps out.

"Shut you up, you lying whore." He moves to strike her again, and Mako sends a bolt of blaze behind him, hot enough to cause him to stop, if only for a moment. Then he runs, heart racing, breath ragged, terror rushing through him, twisting his innards and torching any rational thought in his mind beyond _get away, get away, get away_. The guards ignore them as though the brothers are pesky flies flying about rather than fugitives fleeing from fear, and he's thankful the spirits have shown this small sign of help to their hopeless situation. Metal melts in his mouth, ire and iron interweaving into inferno that escapes, lighting their path through the menacing warehouse, no longer empty as it is choking, no longer a seemingly safe place as it is dangerous as death.

Bars of steel wrap around his shoulders, his bones nearly breaking, the pain pulverising his attempts at evasion, and Bolin's hand slips from his, his brother tripping and falling. Mako tries to spin about, blood boiling into explosive flame, but it dies out the instant it appears, and the beast's claws gouging gashes into his flesh. "I'll have you first," he purrs, his groping hands grasping at the collar of Mako's shirt and ripping it from his body; the cool air somehow burning his heated skin. The beast's glare meanders over him, centring on his pants, as a flare of light at the leg lets him know the clothing is charring to a crisp until he stands there naked but for his scarf, his sternum screeching from the agony of his heartbeat, his entire world little but blood on his lips, blood on his brow where he hit the floor, blood soon to be all over him once the beast has broken him like shattering glass. "I like it when my bitches fight. Fight me."

The words are the last spark of life within him, and once they leave, he is nothing. "_I'm sorry, Bolin_."

The ground underneath the vile thing lifts, knocking him backwards and throwing him across the room. Not quite painfully the pads of Bolin's fingers snag the back of Mako's hand. "Brother, hurry! Brother?"

Already the beast is beginning to rise, and this time the guards approach the brothers, their leader's wishes finally concerning him.

Mako inspires and embraces Bolin, picking up him. "Bo," he says with a voice no longer his, "earthbend us into the ground. We're playing hide and seek."

The heat of the firebenders around them is traded for the chill under the surface. Boots stampede over their heads, but Mako merely clutches his brother more tightly, praying the darkness will not hurt them, suffocate them, put them to sleep, and he regulates his breathing, forcing his pulse to stabilise. "Can you earthbend us forward?"

Bolin is shaking. The firebender can sense his brother's eyes darting nervously back and forth, his fear of the shadows rendering him dumb and blind. "W-where?"

"Forward. Home."

But the earthbender does nothing except wrap his fingers around whatever parts of Mako he can reach, tears drenching the firebender's chest.

"Bo. Bo, listen to me. I need you to focus. Do you want Mommy and Daddy to bring you cake?" Once more he doesn't comprehend how calm he is, the emotion drained from him and into the rock around them. "Please, Bo, I'm right here with you, and I won't let anything hurt you, or me, or us, okay?" Somewhere above them, the beast snarls for an earthbender. He gently takes Bolin's wrist and holds the hand to a smooth slab of stone. "Earthbend that away and behind us. I'll walk."

Quivering, shivering, shuddering, Bolin flutters his fingers, and the stone slowly slides deeper underground. Nudging his brother comfortingly, Mako steps over it, slipping slightly on the moistness in this world beneath the world. "Again, Bo. Please. Remember, Mommy and Daddy are getting cake, Bo. Remember that. Please. For me."

Once more the rock removes itself from the road, rumbling out of reach. Mako continues, his eyelids lowered, his every movement a master of motion, his ears trained on the trouble over the top of the tunnel, waiting the word warning them of impeding danger, yet fortunately the great escape is well. He assumes. Perhaps no one can name one of the earthbenders from the ensemble employed by the Agni Kais. Maybe the spirits are watching over them.

It is within the bounds of imagination to wonder if Mommy and Daddy aren't truly getting cake, and that is the image compelling him to keep pushing on.

At last, Mako can no longer listen to footsteps. Any more time in the endless night shall surely destroy them. For a moment he lingers, considering his options, but, nodding to himself, he tells his brother to earthbend the roof. "Can we go up, Bo?"

Seconds span in silence.

Saffron sunlight spears pain into his eyes when it pours into the passageway. He fumbles as he clutches the mouth of the tunnel, hauling himself up, shards of stone cutting his bare skin, his brother tumbling onto the ground. Mako blinks rapidly, adjusting to his surroundings, and noting with a start that they are on grass next to a pond. The park? Few living beings are around. Besides, a shrub sprouts centimetres away, shading the refugees from roving gazes.

"Where's Hai?"

The scarf unravels, long enough to cover his sitting frame. "I don't know, Bo." His cheeks are wet. "I don't know anything anymore."


	12. Fish

A/N: Gommu rears his shaggy head.

Is a human being worth the destruction of an entire river?

No one is promised tomorrow.

* * *

Clothing is easy to come by, relatively speaking. Borrowing the over-sized jacket the triad gave to Bolin, Mako leaves him hidden safely in the bushes and wanders off to find a pair of pants, keeping as far away from people in the park as potentially possible, self-conscious of his nudity, even though the hem of the jacket is long to go halfway down his thigh. His stomach complains hungrily, but he ignores it for the time: He's certain he will be able to find some food, if only he can catch some clothes first. Unfortunately for him, no apparel appears until he stumbles upon an especially beauteous bush in the middle of the expanse of grass, a few short metres away from the bridge. Someone has laid out several articles of attire on the green, perhaps to dry. To Mako, it is a spirit-send, no matter how worn and torn it might be. Glancing left and right and listening cautiously for signs of the clothes' owner, he dashes forward, snatches a pair of what he presumes to be pants, and leaps back to hastily put them on. They're a size or two too big, but he removes the scarf from his neck to tie it about his waist like a sash, holding his outfit in place.

"Hey! Kid! What are you doing with my trousers!" Mako's head snaps up: A wild-haired elderly man squatting in a bush is flinging his arms about. As he scrambles out of the hedge, he falls onto his face, the soil crusting on his grey whiskers. "Get away from my stuff!"

The firebender swallows. "I'm sorry, sir, I n-need it," he stutters. "You have plenty of pants."

The vagabond's eyes narrow, and he yawns, his tone abruptly shifting to one of boredom. "Well, if you need it, take it. Boy, who's going to stop you?"

Since Mako and Bolin took to the streets, he hasn't felt guilt as much as he has fear and a will to survive, but the shame descends on him, a wave over a sandy stretch of shore, dragging the glittering seashells into the abyss and leaving naught but dull rocks. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I can make it up to you somehow."

"How about you catch me some of those fish?" The hobo gestures towards the river. "I could use some dinner, boy."

"Mako. Not boy." On second thought, it would have been more intelligent to give a false name.

The tramp bobs his head. "Yup, yup. I'm Gommu, by the way."

Adjusting the sash to better fit his slim frame, Mako, resigning himself to Gommu's demands, crouches next to the water, and gazes at it, attempting to find a fish swimming below the sleek silver surface. A memory silently tip-toes into his thoughts: A camping trip he took with Daddy to a forest just outside Republic City, near the mountains. Fishing. With firebending. But how did he do it?

A movement against the current catches his eye, and he lunges forward, the water splashing his new attire. His fingers brush life; the creature slips away before he can catch it.

"Close!" Gommu calls. "Very close!"

Worried his brother might have wandered himself into trouble, Mako hopes Bolin is all right, then concentrates on the rushing rapids. Another movement, this time upstream. His hands are in the riverbed so swiftly he surprises himself, but moments later ripples against his palms cause him to close his fingers around a slippery fish, the scales cutting the pads. Tossing it into the air, Mako firebends at it, cooking it in seconds, and watches it drop, half-charred, at the vagabond's shoes.

"Thanks, boy." Gommu salutes him. "Enjoy the trousers and good luck!"

He glances back at the river, considering fishing up a meal for himself and Bolin. "Sir, is this Central Park?"

"The one and only." The tramp sniffs at the fish, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger, and bites into it. "Mm, there's nothing tastier than home-burned meat if I do say so myself."

"Don't make fun of me." The firebender focuses on the task at hand. "Sir, do you know where two kids could find a home in the city?" He hates the way he describes himself, hates the way his life turned out to be, hates this homeless hobo with the guts and _right_ to laugh at his plight.

"Don't know, boy. I've been living it up in this here bush—" The vagabond pats the coiled leaves fondly. "—for nigh on years now, and I haven't been able to find nothing. Used to have everything. Then everything changed."

Mako's quiet, listening to the story with one ear and to the sounds of the waves with the other. A flash. Miss. Another. Miss. Again, again, again. Miss, miss, miss. Flames of frustration flare within him, the heat rising in his throat, and, without another option, he expels as much as he can into the water, which begins to boil and starts to steam.

"They're replacing my beautiful telegraphs with the radio. Science marches on, it does, but sometimes a fellow can be a bit upset." Gommu pauses. "But you know what they say. No one's promised tomorrow. Some people get it, and some people don't. You just got to keep your chin up, boy, and carry on till the day they strike you dead."

The water vapour clears; several dead fish float in the languid liquid. Without realising what he has done, Mako collects them as cooler water flows in from upstream, bringing with it more river-dwellers to take the place of those killed in one fell swoop by his indiscriminate firebending.

"Thank you, sir." His tone is polite. Cold, yet polite.

Nibbling on fish, Bolin comments on the outfit: "I like your scarfy sash. Reminds me of Mommy's."

Mako responds with silence, the grass scratching his neck where his scarf was.

He returns it to its place, wishing he could return to his place as well.


	13. Stream

A/N: Spring has sprung, and an average of some fifteen centimetres does hair grow in a year.

Death is beautiful; life is ugly; yet one must still live.

The suspense rises like the mist.

* * *

The first signs of summer's coming heat drive the brothers into the river. Bolin kicks off the ratty remains of shoes into the grass and doesn't bother to return them, diving instead into the cool water. Thinking of wet clothing, he looks at the shadow of his brother beneath the stream.

Bolin bursts from the river, grabbing the leg of Mako's pants, and the firebender feels himself titling, falling into the water. He welcomes the coolness that surrounds him suddenly, cleansing him temporarily of hunger and hate, of fear and fire, of sorrow and stars, unreachable overhead yet reminding him of what he could have had. The frothing waves roll over his head, the current taking him downstream, his brother's hands clenching tightly to his shoulders as they ride the wild water until it empties them into a pond. Bolin laughs gleefully, his unkempt hair spreading out, and with a start Mako realises how long his brother's hair is now, a sign of the time they have been together on the street.

Almost a year.

_Almost a year_.

He hides his tears by ducking his head into the pool. "Mako?" Bolin's voice brings him up again. "Mako? I wanted to tell you something."

Mako blinks, treading water with as little motion as he can, his toes not quite reaching the pebbly bottom of the pond. "What is it?"

His brother grins, a reed stuck haphazardly in his hair. "Thanks for being here." His emerald eyes twinkle with the light from the dawn, golden flecks highlighted as though set aflame. "For me." He embraces Mako without warning.

"Bo . . ." His heart squeezes as he plucks the reed from Bolin's head, twirling it between his fingers. "I'm always going to be here for you, I promise. You're wise beyond your years."

When Bolin sees the reed, he giggles and starts to hiccup, a sound that buoys both of them, and Mako begins to laugh as well, a nervous chuckle that gives in to the true laughter kept inside of him for so long, loud and clear and bubbling with brightness.

"Thank you," he manages to say between fits of mad laughing. "Thank you for that Bolin. See, I take care of you, and you remind me why."

Beaming, Bolin splashes Mako's face. They splash each other for a few minutes, until Mako shakes his head, creating a spark of fire on the tip of his finger. "What are you doing?" the earthbender inquires, pausing the game. "Brother? Heh heh, you look like Mommy. Or like you're wearing a wig! Mommy Mako! Mommy Mako!" He drops back, floating on his back. "Now I'm a sea starfish. Brother?"

"Watch." The firebender touches the hair where he wishes to cut it and rapidly turns a circle around the spot, setting it on fire. Immediately he dunks his head into the pool, dark brown strands swirling around him. Surfacing, he gasps deeply and waits for the waves to settle.

Bolin can't seem to stop giggling. "Brother, what did you do to yourself? Look!" The water clears, and Mako is greeted with a singed and uneven cut, bits of the front sticking up in spikes from the treatment, not lying down neatly as before. Even further away from Mommy and Daddy now. Instinctively, he brushes his scarf.

He feels bare skin.

Drowning.

He's drowning.

His jacket and pants are on, but his scarf is missing, no longer around his neck or his waist. His blood isn't moving; he's cold as ice, no matter the heat of the day. Leaving his brother, he paddles, panicking, up against the current, hoping he will find it soon, soon, soon. He has to. That scarf is the last thing he has. _The last thing._

Other than his brother's green eyes, the same as Mommy's.

He has that.

But he needs the scarf. He needs to keep Daddy close, even if Daddy is too far away to know.

A flash of red on the side of the bank causes him to pause, throwing himself onto the ground with an inhuman strength born of sheer desperation, a cloud of upraised dirt blinding him. He grasps at the whatever it is. His hands meet not wet fabric but warm flesh.

Recoiling instantly, he wipes his face with the sleeve of the jacket and opens his eyes to see two sockets staring back at him. Stifling a scream, he edges backwards, his gaze travelling over his find: The corpse of a young girl, perhaps five or six years old, her skeleton visible through her taut, stretched-out skin, her body collapsed in on itself, her hollow cheeks betraying the way she died: Starvation.

Bile floods his throat. He swallows several times, but it jets abruptly from his mouth, scorching his tongue and lips with its acidity. The rank smell of fish scents the air now, the contents of his stomach staining the soil, an offering to the deceased, to the dead, to those beyond the pains and perils of the earth.

Devoid of everything, Mako kneels there in front of the corpse for a time, shooing off the carrion birds that come to peck at the remnants of her eyes in the vacant sockets or start on her meat. Somehow, the girl, framed in the lilies and the tall grasses, is beautiful.

Death is beautiful in its simplicity.

Life is ugly.

But he has to keep living.

Turning away from the body, he feels something slide inside his shirt: His scarf fell in without him noticing.

Yet he knows the spirits sent him here to find this, to pay his respects to the girl who died here.

Erasing the horror from his memory and transforming it into respect, Mako pads down the riverbank, mud squishing between his toes. "Bo! I found it!" His thoughts race: Should he tell Bolin about the girl? "Bo?"

He has come to the rim of the pond.

But shattered expectations follow in his wake.

His brother is no longer there.


	14. Screw

A/N: Would one say that Mako is screwed?

The brothers find themselves playing a very different sort of hunger games.

Thunder and lightning, very very frightening.

* * *

"Very funny, Bo." The phrase is cliché, a staple of those radio dramas to which his parents enjoyed listening. "You're hiding in the bushes somewhere, aren't you? Waiting for me to find you. Come out." His brother doesn't appear; Mako frowns and wades through the shallow end of the pool, shards of reed stems slicing into the pads of his feet, and shakes the nearby vegetation with a hand, peeking about to search for Bolin, but the earthbender—unless he bent himself into the soil, which is carrying the jest a tad too far even for him—is nowhere to be seen.

Mentally, Mako retraces his steps. The pond, up the river, their temporary home. Up the river. Casting a wide berth around the bank where the corpse of the starved girl presumably resides, he makes his squelching and tedious way up the stream, forcing himself to be tranquil, serene, calm. "What would Daddy do?" The scarf fills his palm; he tugs on it several times, ensuring it is snug. "He would tell Mommy to calm down. He'd call. Bo! Bolin!" Overhead, the clouds darken, sagging with the promise of rain. "Bolin! _Ow!_"

Falling backwards, Mako rubs his wounded heel, but there's no puncture wound, luckily. There _is_ a red mark, the impression of a small circular surface with a raised line on the centre. Eyes narrowing, he scours the mud, sifting through it with careful fingers when he is unable to discover the mystery object, and the search takes his mind off of the more important search, but he knows, somehow, that his brother is fine. The triads, as far as he thinks, wouldn't operate in a beautiful park like this; Bolin most likely went off after an iguana rabbit or a mockingjay somewhere and is giggling on how pretty it is. He'll come back. Mako nods to himself, the fabric slipping, the edge of the scarf trailing.

The grass springy under him, he crowns the hill, but Bolin isn't there, either. Sighing, the firebender sets himself to take a walk through the park: As soon as Bolin is hungry or tired, he will go rushing about questioning passers-by on the whereabouts of his brother, and then Mako will be able to hear his cries of panic and alarm and find him. It is as simple and easy as that.

Concern roils in his innards.

He sets himself upon making dinner.

By evening, the concern has spread.

The cold fish lies limply on a bed of leaves used as a makeshift plate, far removed from the hot bowls of rice and noodles, the baked goods, and the fresh meat of the Agni Kai Triad. Though it was a novelty and a blessed relief for the first few days, they can't live off of fish forever, but who is going to give them fruits, vegetables, milk, meat, everything else?

Perhaps joining a triad isn't such a bad idea. It merely has to be a good one, not one that will try to hurt him or Bolin again.

_Bolin_.

"He's going to be okay," Mako tells himself, folding himself in as tiny a space as he can manage, a flame flickering weakly in his palm. "He's going to be okay. Going to be okay. Going to be okay." The words are as real as _getting cake_, a broken mantra for his broken life. "Going to be okay." The imprint on his foot throbs; he presses it with his thumb, the pain ebbing and flowing. A shower of rain announces itself, water running down his face. He's not certain if what he feels is rain or tears. Through the breaks in the clouds, the stars shine on, oblivious to his pain and his grief. They would not notice if he died. They would not care. They don't shine for him or for any of the other uncountable children shuddering on street corners, trembling near trolley stops, anguishing in alleys, groaning in gutters, dying in dumpsters. They only shine for themselves. "Spirits, please, if you're out there, listen to me." A clap of lightning sears white in his vision, the thunder pounding his eardrums. "Whatever happens to me, make sure Bo is okay. Okay? Please?"

Thunder.

"Okay."

Somewhere, a badgerfrog croaks. A zebra loon neighs, its shadow black on the pale face of the moon. The clouds close, leaving him in a darkness almost as deep as that in his spirit.

His heel complains when he attempts to stand on it. His wet clothing stuck fast to his skin, Mako steps forward, intent on looking for Bolin, but the slick ground trips him. It splatters him, drenching him in cold and wet, and he lets out a moan, lying in the mud, shivering from the chill, refusing to weep no matter his place in life.

"I'm lost."

Thunder.

"Daddy, I wish you were here."

Thunder.

"Don't let me die like this."

Thunder.

Another moan. A death keel. It takes him a moment to realise it's his.

Thunder.

He pries himself from the mud with difficulty, the dirt clinging to his limbs, begging him to lie down and sleep in its frigid embrace.

Thunder.

Trying to firebend, he finds he can produce nearly nothing, the combination of _freezing_ and _rain_ weakening his power considerably. Barely, he crawls along the bank, the scarf dragging, the tip heavy with mud of its own. Pausing, he wraps it about his arm, ending at the wrist, and moves on, feeling like an infant without the ability to walk, reduced to this, but there is no Daddy happily waiting for him on the other side of the room, no Mommy proffering an embrace, nothing, nothing, nothing at all.

A small circular surface with a raised line on the centre jabs his palm. Inhaling, he picks it out from the soil, examining it in the glow of the ember on his thumb, anything stronger impossible.

A low sob chokes in his throat.

It's a glimmering black screw from a satomobile.


	15. Blue

A/N: While the firebender smoulders, the earthbender rocks.

It was a cup of good intentions, a tablespoon of one big mess . . .

A belief in family can manifest a smile even in the darkest of moments.

* * *

"You are safe now."

The blanket wrapped around him only makes him shiver now, the familiar thrum of the satomobile soothing him enough to not break out into sobs. The brown fabric of the seat in front of him holds his vision steady.

"Worry not. Mental trauma can often cause abandoned children to lose the ability to speak. I heard you speaking earlier; I presume your speech issues are temporary, caused by the sudden shift of your environment. Is not that so?" The woman in the driver's seat, her pink scarf reminding him starkly of Mako, brakes and glances backwards to smile warmly at him, her sapphire eyes hoest and sincere. Astonished by her kindness, he grins back, finally letting go of the hem of the blanket, which falls away. She purses her lips. "You require a haircut, my poor dear. Tell me, do you have a name? How old are you?"

"I'm Bolin, and I'm only six and a half years old!" He blinks and cocks his head. "Did you find my brother, too?"

The satomobile picks up speed, the view from the window enticing, vehicles and people and shops passing by more quickly than he can focus on any one of them, a blur of colour and light. "Your brother? But you were alone when I rescued you . . . ah, I see." Swerving to the right, she parks in front of a restaurant, a Jasmine Dragon with several tables outside, the umbrellas shielding the handful of customers from the sun. "Well, Bolin—" Enunciating the syllables, she pronounces his name correctly. "—are you hungry?"

"I'm so hungry, I could eat a whole zebra pike!" he answers brightly, his fingers fumbling to open the vehicle door, and when he manages it he tumbles out and sprawls on the ground, laughing. The woman taps his shoulder.

"Bolin, you are unusually optimistic for a young boy surviving in the harsh winter for goodness knows how long. Tell me, what length of time have you survived on your own?"

He shakes his head, enjoying the feel of his hair bouncing against his head. "Where's Mako?" She takes his hand, leading him into the Jasmine Dragon. "I wasn't on my own. I had Mako."

The woman sighs. "Bolin, I know that expirations can be harrowing to deal with, and I presume it is easier to imagine he is still out there for you, but you are alone. Worry not, for you are now safe."

"What do you mean?" He notices the happy family in the line in front of them: A mother, a father, two sons, one of them little enough to have to be carried in his mother's arms. "I really want Mako right now. Do you know where he is?" She reminds him somewhat of the blue-eyed woman, her name something like Nonny or Nanny. Could all blue-eyed women be lying? "You're not going to try to do awful things to me, are you?" he inquires suspiciously, pouting. "Like those bad guys did?"

She chuckles. "You are sweet. I must say that I am curious to hear to which _bad guys_ you refer, but that shall wait for later." Of the bored-looking boy occupying the counter she asks for two cups of tea and noodles for each of them. Bolin leaps onto the bar stool, discovering with delight that it twists and twirls, and he naturally spins himself about it. When the meal arrives, he sets upon it anxiously, wolfing it down to satisfy the emptiness of his belly. At the same time something nags in the back of his mind:

"Where's Mako?" he quizzes again, the steam from the noodle bowl obscuring the woman's face.

"Oh, my poor dear." She sips her tea, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. "Do not you know that your brother is—"

Bolin shakes his head adamantly, dropping the chopsticks. Drops of hot liquid splatter his face and arms. "He and I were swimming in that pond where you found me, and then he went off thataway to get his scarf. He's got a scarf kind of like yours 'cept it's red instead of pink. Anyway he had just left for maybe five minutes when you showed up." The delicious taste of noodles fades away on his tongue; he attempts to push the stool away from the counter. "I thought you were helping me go look for him 'cause he wasn't coming back and I was scared. He's been with that scarf for a year now. It's the lucky scarf you know? So I went with you 'cause I thought you'd help me but then you didn't."

The woman puts her chopsticks gently down, the wooden tips clattering slightly when they make contact with the rim of the bowl. "Bolin, you are safe now. Please worry not of your brother."

"You're just like the bad guys!" Others in the Jasmine Dragon are starting to raise their heads, the boy at the counter flipping them a rude hand gesture. In response the woman shushes the earthbender with a finger to her lips. "No! Promise me you'll go back and help me find my brother! Promise!"

"Cry not, my poor dear." She beams at him and pats his head. "You are safe now. Very well, after we finish eating, we may return to search for your . . . lost brother. Now _ssh_. Please enjoy the noodles."

Relieved, Bolin sags on the seat and noms the noodles, the slippery strands lovely in his dehydrated throat. Although he tries to eat normally, his ravenous body causes him to slap the chopsticks onto the bar and tip the bowl over to drink it, gulping without caring of the burning sensation in his stomach or the damage done to his mouth. Thirsty for more, he lunges for the tea, but the cup slips from his grip and crashes to the floor, spilling over the tiles.

The counter boy groans.

Bolin grins to himself.


	16. Help

A/N: The plot thickens. The green-eyed one is not all he claims to be.

Mentions of a certain scarlet scarf are enough to remind one of the ashes.

Perhaps the Beifong birthday bash brings brothers together.

* * *

Mako feels slightly better and worse at once by the time the rain ends, a fresh scent hanging in the heavy air. Better because he knows, at least, that Bolin came through here, considering the screw he found. Worse because he doesn't know where his brother is, and by now it's been nearly a full day.

Pausing only to drink and cook a fish for breakfast to regain his strength, Mako stumbles up the riverbank, telling himself over and over that Bolin is okay.

There's something horrible, however, about this disappearance, something even more horrible than his parents'.

Because there's one thing worse than knowing his brother is dead:

_Not knowing_.

For all the firebender does know, Bolin could be starving on the street, or tortured by triads, or—or—

He can't think like that. He has to keep going.

The edge of the park calls to him. As though it were a gift from the spirits, he has a feeling in his gut that his brother is no longer in Central Park. Or that could be that thing in his innards, twisting and coiling.

At least he has the scarf. As long as he has the scarf, everything will turn out okay, Bolin will be found, and his parents will return with cake, chocolate, _and_ vanilla, _and_ mint, all with fudge and nuts and chocolate and more chocolate on top, the kind Bolin wanted.

_Wants_.

The kind he _wants_.

A paper blows across the expanse of grass. Agilely Mako swipes it from its path: A newspaper, the date declaring that it is a mere week before his brother's birthday returns, the headline reading, _Republic City prepares to celebrate anniversary of former Chief Beifong's birthday_. Another birthday. _The city will be partying,_ the newspaper claims, _with the annual Chief Beifong parade showcasing her many additions to the world of bending. Without her and the art of metalbending, the wonders of Republic City could not have been fathomed. This technology has been used not only to better the lives of everyone in the city but also to reduce poverty across the board._ His hands shake, and he lets go of the paper, black ink staining his fingers. "Reduce poverty? Why haven't I seen anything for a year?" A shaky breath fills his lungs. In. Out. In. Out. "No one in this city cares about us _but_ us. Bolin, I'm coming for you."

Because for so long he felt grass, hot cement is foreign, especially considering his lack of shoes. Wincing from the burning sensation on the pads of his feet, Mako approaches a gaggle of older teenaged boys sitting on a bench at the trolley stop, a box of takeout passed around between them.

"Excuse me." He coughs into his palm, then tries again. "Excuse me!"

One boy with spiky raven hair glares at him. "No scraps for a street rat," he intones sullenly.

His friend crosses his arms, his green eyes comfortingly like Bolin's. "Kuro, shut up. What's wrong, kid?"

"Have you seen my brother?" Mako fiddles with the scarf. "He's almost seven years old. He has black hair and green eyes. It's long, down to his shoulders."

"His eyes?" Raven Spikes sniggers.

The firebender frowns. "The hair."

"Wait a second, don't I know you? Couple months ago. I remember you and your dinky little scarf. You stole my lunch!"

Flame burns in his palms. "It's not dinky!" Mako snaps, his rage barely controlled. The scarf remains a word that triggers a terrifying fury, an alien anger dumbfounding him each time it raises its head and uncurls from its hiding place in a dark corner of his heart. His throat constricted, he steps towards Raven Spikes, fire flaring in his fingers.

Green Eyes jabs Raven Spikes in the side with an elbow and waves to the firebender, who silently allows the blaze to build. "Kuro, shut up. I don't know who that is, but he's barely eight, it looks like. I don't want to be the one who messes him up. If he's having issues, he needs help."

Mako sighs in relief, the flame fading away to nothing. Even if he doesn't entirely trust Green Eyes, he's more likely to aid the search for Bolin. "Thank you."

"No problem, kid. When's the last time you saw your brother? Last place?"

Raven Spikes growls. "This is stupid. This kid's retarded. And he _stole_ my stuff. Am I supposed to just forgive him for that?"

"You're supposed to just shut the Spirit World up." Green Eyes smiles at Mako. "My name's Wulin. Pleased to meet you."

"Lee." The firebender thinks he's heard before that the name is particularly common, and the Wu_lin_-Bo_lin_ similarity isn't lost upon him.

Wulin makes some form of hand gesture at Raven Spikes and slides off of the bench. "So, seven years old, black hair, green eyes. Bender?"

"Earth."

"And the last time and place you saw him?"

Mako looks longingly at the takeout before he can stop himself, but he tears his gaze away and ponders Wulin's question. "Yesterday," he says with some finality. "In the morning. There's a pond in Central Park where we were cooling off. I lost my scarf. When I came back, he was no longer there."

"You're worried that he might have run off or been taken by the triads, aren't you?" He nods. "Not many triads operate around here except the Triple Threats."

The bottom falls out, the sidewalk opening, swallowing him whole, magma burning him alive. "The Triple Threats." The new name of the entity of which he must be afraid. "What would they do to him?"

Wulin shrugs, tucking a light brown lock behind his ear. "We could go and ask them."

"Won't they capture us, too?"

"I got street cred, kid." The older boy rubs the stubble dotting his chin thoughtfully. "I could find out sneaky-like."

Mako glances down at the cement. "How can I repay you?"

"Don't have to."

Yet the firebender senses that somehow he will.


	17. Crow

A/N: The dark kite returns, a harbinger of temptation.

The woman shall return as well in an agony in pink.

And grief shall return in the next instalment.

* * *

"Mako! Mako? Makooo?" The words carry far out over the park, his voice loud to stir a flock of zebra loons that take to the skies, their frantic neighing accompanied by a cacophony of hoof beats and wing flaps. His new shoes dangling from his right hand, Bolin lifts the left to cup it over his mouth. "Mako!"

The woman with the pink scarf follows him, wiping her glasses on a rag. "I do not believe that he is there, my poor dear. Are you certain that he was with you yesterday?"

"I don't know how long it's been." Bolin steps on a scrap of newspaper and pauses, glancing down. A photo showing a photograph of a young, confident woman in metal armour greets. Shrugging, he lifts his foot and allows the paper to soar away. "I think it was yesterday though. You ever get one of those moments where you think it was yesterday but it wasn't because you fell asleep during the day and then it was all dark and you don't know if it's the next day or it was just all cloudy or dark or something like that?"

"I am not sure I know to what you refer." The woman tries a smile. "Yet I fear he is not here."

Bolin shakes his head and dashes forward, dirt packing with each impact. "Heh heh, that rhymed. But I know he is! Somewhere here, or there, or over on that bend." Something clicks in his mind. "I got it! The pond!" Without checking to see if she is trailing after him or not, he takes off at a run, bending the earth to aid him with each push-off. The soil is soon swapped with squelching silt, the reeds cutting into his pads, the mud cooling the wound prior to its pain. A lone turtle duck quacks and waddles off, the streak of red on its shell bringing the picture of Mako's scarf to drift the sea of his conscious, looking for a thought with which to connect. _Love_. _Warm_. _Safe_.

Landing on the very edge of the pool, the earthbender looks to and fro, but his brother isn't here or there or anywhere. "Maybe it's the wrong one." A grey, rubbery half-circle sticking out of the bank attracts his attention. Once he has grasped it tightly, he pulls, jerking it from the ground: The half-dissolved remains of his tattered shoes. "Oh. It's the right one. He must have gone back to the bush. I bet that's what happened."

"My dear, wait up!"

"I can't! I got to find him!"

The struggle upstream is alleviated by his bending, and he zips along rapidly, coming out to a rock jutting out over the river, the exact place where he and Mako jumped in that initial time. Several eel pigeons clear from it, electricity jolting from the featherless areas on their talons. But his brother isn't here either. Not even a trace can be found. At once his hand slips into his pocket, desperate to feel the satomobile screw that soothed him those nine months they spent starving on the street, the days hotter than fire, the nights colder than ice. Somehow he misses those months, with the cold leftovers discovered in dumpsters and the scraps of takeout filched off benches, because in those months it was just him and Mako, the two of them together, inseparable, now and forever.

"Mako? Makooo? Mako, where are you? I need you. Mako?" The more he says it, the more the word loses its meaning, passes into nothing but sound, like _getting cake_, muttered over and over and over again, turning into a jumble of syllables that comfort him without him truly understanding why. His knees are cold; he has fallen into the cool silt, fingers digging through the dirt as though seeking clues. "Mako!"

A touch on his shoulder. Bolin spins around, mud splattering, his ears pricked to the sound of his brother's timbre. But it is merely the woman in the pink scarf, wringing her hands. "Oh, my dear, your brother is nowhere at all. At least he is not present in this park. Perhaps we should return home?"

Bolin blinks. "But we haven't found Mako yet," he objects, wobbling as he stands. "And we can't leave without Mako, right?"

". . . I do not hold faith that your brother is in this world anymore." The corners of her lips twitch. "Come, let us go. He is safe now, in the Spirit World, as all good children are."

"He's not in the Spirit World. That's for spirits and Avatars." The earthbender pouts. "He's not a spirit _or_ an Avatar."

She adjusts the scarf, pulling it away from her neck. "I insist we go."

"I don't want to go." Before the woman can answer, a dark shape flits overheard, wings spread wide. The lizard crow lands heavily next to Bolin, his beady eyes staring into the latter's spirit. A pink, featherless V marking his chest, he caws and turns, ruffling what feathers he does have. A zebra loon neighs from far off, but another caw silence the striped creature. "Hey, I recognise you! You're that lizard crow Mako liked!"

"Your brother speaks to lizard crows?" she repeats dubiously.

Bolin squats and holds out his hand. "I do recognise you! You're the one with the footsie that's gone missing. This one." He reaches out to poke it, but the animal snaps at his fingers, and he draws back. "I'm sorry, friend. What are you trying to tell me? Do _you_ know where Mako is?" The lizard crow very slowly dips his head, touching his beak to his chest. "Can you take me?"

"This is not the best plan." The woman frowns. "We could contact the police, request that they search for him. My dear? Bolin? Bolin, come back this instant!"

A cloud of dust is the only sign left that the earthbender and the lizard crow have ever been in her reach.


	18. Bolt

A/N: Stories draw to a close. Paths cross. Brothers unite.

But not until the trials and tribulations have taken their share.

_Hush, hush._ The crescendo will build, the silence will tear it down, and the finale will bring them together once more.

* * *

The distant caws of a murder of lizard crows remind him of who he is. Inspiring, Mako takes careful step after careful step after Wulin, padding softly behind the teenager. The scarf coils onto the ground; he picks it up and holds the hem as though holding his brother's life or the edge of the precipice, the slippery ice causing him to fall still further down the slippery slope.

When he sees the statue of Fire Lord Zuko, the memories melt into his mind, misting it with moments of Mako and Bolin, laughing and living, fears flitting far to the fog, the two together.

The fire, a beacon of light, continues to flare from the Fire Lord's fist.

On a bench is perched a boy of perhaps ten or eleven, slightly older than Mako, the fresh corpse of a dead girl lying at his shoes. His rags ill-fit for his slender, starved form, the street rat glares at Wulin. "What ya want?"

"Information." Wulin tosses the boy a yuan, which disappears swiftly as snow in summer's heat. "Have the Triple Threats been recruiting?"

"Nope." The street rat wipes his nose, his suspicious gaze held on Mako. The firebender stays silent. "But I seen that 'un muscle wit' some li'l kid. Mebbe five 'ears er so?"

Mako inhales. "Did he have long black hair and green eyes?" he asks quickly, his words tumbling over themselves. "Six, almost seven years old?"

The boy sniggers and shows the firebender his palm. Confused, he glances at Wulin, who pulls another yuan from his pocket. "Kid, this is Patch. He provides information to everyone." The drab greyness of the rock flakes away when Patch's hand resumes its previous position. Mako's breath dissipates into mist; he's a tad astounded that it is yet cold this late in spring, or perhaps that's only the cold of his heart freezing the rest of his blood. "Answer the question."

"Yeah, 'bout six er sev'n. Sounds right. Kinda dumb-lookin', bit on th' stupid side, y'know." Patch snorts and sits out a glob of saliva, the wetness landing on Mako's foot. "Th' muscle was takin' 'im t' th' Triple T's. 'S all I know."

"Well, Mako, I'm afraid there you have it. Thanks, Patch." Wulin hooks the firebender's arm and leads him away from the statue. Patch slips off of the base, landing on the girl's corpse with a sickening crack and a nauseating squelch. "We'll have to see the Triple Threats directly."

Mako frowns. "What are we going to do?" A quiver runs through his form as he recalls the last time he dealt with a triad, and his eyes widen when he understands what could be happening to his brother, _right now_. "We have to go immediately!"

"Hold your ostrich horses, kid. No need to rush in there like an overeager squirrel monkey." He rubs his chin thoughtfully and snaps his fingers piercingly enough to cause Mako to wince. "Actually, I think that rushing in like an overeager squirrel monkey might be the thing to do."

"What do you mean?"

Wulin smirks. "I mean we're going to talk to the big dumpling himself."

The big dumpling, as it turns out, resides within a gargantuan warehouse akin to that of the Agni Kai Triad; the sight of it makes Mako's skin crawl, the ground dropping out from under him, his blood a dull roar in his ears. Curiously the man standing guard at the front waves Wulin in without a second glance, Mako trailing anxiously after him. The hazy smoke burns his eyes and throat, leaving him blind as a bat mole, and the music pulsing through the floor deafens him. His nostrils flare as a foreign scent makes him light-headed. He seeks out his newfound friend's hand. "Are you sure we're going to find Bolin here?" His lips form three familiar syllables, his mantra bringing him some semblance of tranquillity even if he hasn't believed those words for nearly a year.

"Maybe. Maybe not. We've got to try, neh?" He is pulled forward; at least Wulin knows where to go, picking his way through the throng. Somewhere, a woman moans, and deep inside Mako is glad he cannot see. "Watch your step. This is the Triple T's gentlemen's club, shall we say."

"The gentlemen's club?" the firebender echoes.

His friend does not reply but instead stops, the heel of shoe resounding with a sharp click. "Stand there. Easy, now, kid." A rap on a door. "It's Wulin. I got to talk." The stone flies open and slams into the opposite wall. "Come on and hurry up." He strolls inside, bidding Mako to rush in rapidly after him lest what happened at the Agni Kais happen here as well.

There is a desk, yes, and a radio, much like the beast's, but a wholly different atmosphere pervades this place. One hand on his low-brimmed hat, the other wielding a pen circling certain dates on a calendar in bright red, the man sitting in the chair raises his head when Wulin and Mako enter, his amber gaze burrowing into Mako's spirit. "Wulin."

"Lightning Bolt Zolt." Wulin inclines his head and flicks the radio off, the smooth jazz dropping into silence. "Word on the street says you know where a certain green-eyed, black-haired earthbender is. About seven years old, small for his age. Street kid."

A strange expression passes over the man's face, and he turns the music back on, relaxing as the static clears. Lightning Bolt Zolt, Mako reiterates to himself, affixing the name with a person. "I don't know all the poor unfortunate spirits who come to the triad." He withdraws a tin from his pocket and places it onto the desk. "But if you were to inform me how I could help you, and how you could help me . . ."

Wulin nods curtly. "Mako, please go into that closet." He gestures towards a door, the knob broken off. "And you and I, Zolt, have matters to discuss."


	19. Out

A/N: Characters intersect, paths meet, and a hero becomes a villain.

A child's mind sees the world in truth, the smallest lizard crow already a friend.

Part I steadily manoeuvres to an end, and Part II begins, once more, with Hunger.

* * *

Bolin runs after the lizard crow, his dark wings an inversed beacon of hope. "Wait for me!" he pants, his short six-year-old legs unable to keep up with the bird's flight. "Don't leave without me!" Cawing to him, the lizard crow stops at regular intervals, talons clutched about fence-posts, backs of benches, or street lamps, continuing only once the earthbender has caught up to him. Passers-by give Bolin curious stares: A young child half-sprinting, half-seemingly fleeing alone through the streets is bound to attract attention, but the grief and sorrow for his missing brother is hidden by a façade of happiness, a façade even he has accepted as reality, and his face reveals nothing of his true feelings.

He follows quickly as he can, dashing through the street and ignoring the satomobiles that nearly run him over, their beeping horns piercing his ears. The wind blinds him, but the lizard crow's sounds keeps him going, on and on and on, until he trips over the curb of the sidewalk and falls onto the ground. Lightning bolts of pain flash up from his knees to his toes and up through his spine; his skull feels as though it has been splintered into a thousand pieces. For a moment Bolin floats in a sea of nothingness. In the next, he cries out, tears streaming down his cheeks from the agony, scarlet trickling from his knees and nose. Gingerly he touches his finger to the tip of his nose, the blood dribbling into his mouth and bringing with it the taste of iron, and he is rewarded with a blossom of pain.

"Mommy," he manages weakly, his voice unusually nasally, his mind not yet comprehending the words dropped into the air like heavy stones. "I think my nose is broken." The lizard crow lands half a metre away and glares at him with one beady eye, his caw that of contempt, though the earthbender can sense the smallest hint of concern underneath. He wipes his face with his sleeve, the hem coming away crimson. Shakily, he tries to stand, but the pain in his knees causes them to give way, and he collapses back to the sidewalk, the pebbles and dust lodging themselves into his wounds. Once more the lizard crow caws, fluffing his feathers with a feeling of finality. "Sorry, friend. I'll go in a second. Just give me a minute or two. And a bandage."

Footsteps. The bird squawks and flies a short distance away. Bolin turns his head and sees a dark-skinned boy standing in front of him, his hair split into two long warrior's wolf tails on either side of his head, framing his face. "Woah, are you okay?" the boy asks. "You look like you hurt yourself pretty badly."

"I'm okay. Just got a broken nose." The earthbender grins. "Are _you_ okay?"

The boy glances at the lizard crow, which croaks at him. "You know where you are, right? You're deep in Triple T territory."

"Triple T?" Bolin blinks.

"Triple Threat Triad." Frowning, the boy looks right and left. "What are you doing here?"

For the first time he looks around and is somewhat flabbergasted to see the drabness of the streets, the cracked and broken pavement, the terrified-looking people scuttling down like so many elephants rats. "I don't know. I was following that lizard crow," he answers truthfully, pointing to the black bird. "I'm trying to find my brother. Do you think you could help me?" A cattish smile graces his lips.

His friend hesitates. "I don't have time for this." The boy gazes warily at the creature with wings spread protectively out, making it appear larger than it is. "I could take you to the triad. They might know."

"No way." Bolin crosses his arms. "Last time I went with a triad, they . . ." He wipes his cheeks again. "They hurt someone."

"What's going on?" The boy and Bolin both spin about, a teenager with light brown hair on the other side of the road staring at them. "Nakku, what did you do?"

The boy puts his hands on his hips. "Nothing. I found this kid looking for his lost brother."

"His lost brother?" The teenager crosses the street, flipping a rude hand gesture to a satomobile that swerves past. His green eyes remind Bolin of his own, a curious kindness swirling within. "Hey, kid, what's your name?"

"B-bolin," he responds, tapping his forefingers against each other. "Why? Do you know where my brother is?"

Smiling, the teenager crouches next to him and pats his shoulder. "I think I do, Bolin. Is your brother's name Mako?"

Bolin's heart leaps into his throat. "_Yes!_" he yells, embracing his new friend tightly. "Where is he?"

"Nakku, take him. I think that Lightning Bolt Zolt wants to see him." The teenager walks a few metres away, then turns back as if a thought has occurred to him. "Nakku, make sure the rules are set. And heal him when you get there. We don't need damaged property." He pauses. "Nix that. This way he won't be able to escape."

The boy raises an eyebrow and grabs the earthbender's arm. "Are you going to take me to my brother?"

"I will. Can't you stand?" Scanning the bloodied legs, Nakku makes to pick him up. "Take him to Zolt, you said?"

"Do I stutter?" The green-eyed teenager leaves them there. "Oh, and Nakku?"

The boy growls. "What?"

"Do me a favour and knock him out."

Bolin yips and punches the air with his fist, bending the earth under Nakku's feet, knocking him over. Swiftly he tries to half-crawl, half-roll away, his knees shrieking with every movement. But a shoe connects with his ribs, and darkness swarms around him, accompanied by frantic, staccatoed caws.

"No damaged property," the teenager repeats. Bolin bends the rock around him, but the stone doesn't move, as if held down by an even more powerful bender.

A flutter of sable feathers takes Bolin into the night.


	20. Deal

A/N: Deals with the devil do not safety make.

Koala sheep go astray. Writers do as well. Forgiveness is key when threads are lost, threads regained in subsequent parts.

Time and reading do not sync. Though beginnings come before, endings come after, and Bolin's tale tears through the middle.

* * *

The darkness presses in on him; he presses in against the door, straining to hear the sounds filtering through the crack. "Likely hasn't eaten in a few days."

"I don't give charity."

"A boy like that could be raised properly the way a grown man can't. He's only nine. He's malleable as a ball of clay." Beat. "A ball you could shape however you desire."

"Mm."

"All you need is an incentive. He's lost his brother. I _know_ that you just so _happen_ to have _found his brother_ and would love to reunite them on the condition that he fulfill a few, eh, tasks for you."

"Why, yes. _Naturally_ I have this brother."

Mako's breathing increases to an impossible pace.

"But where am I having him, now?"

"I'll care take of that. Give him the offer."

Footsteps. Dying steadily away. Then more footsteps, coming closer, shoes tapping outside the door. The wood creaking as it slides. Light bringing pain into his world, his eyes watering.

"Get out."

When Mako is let out of the closet, Wulin is gone. Lightning Bolt Zolt remains, his radio still going loudly enough for the firebender to try to close his ears. The man snorts. "You know, it takes someone with serious—" He says a word that Mako blocks out, his memory of his parents telling him it is a word he should not hear. "—to run into a closest because a mobster told you to. Or stupid."

His flesh crawls. Smoke curls in wisps around him. "Wulin said you know where my brother is." Trying to swallow, Mako feels the haze burn his throat, tears springing to his eyes, though he isn't whether it is from the smoke or the fact that he of merely nine years of age is standing here bargaining with a ruthless man who could kill him at any second. He can't quite wrap his head around _kill_. "Where is he?"

"I have him." Zolt sits up in his chair. "For _now_. So what are you going do for him?"

Mako hates how the man peppers his speech with phrases he cannot repeat. "Do for him?" He tenses, his heart rate slowing to nearly a stop, his world concentrated on that single sentence. "_Do for him?_"

"Yeah. Do for him. Don't waste my time, kid." A scowl distorts Zolt's features. "You don't get to be a Triple Threat by wasting time."

Before Mako can reply, the door bursts open, and another man sprints in carrying a briefcase. "Sir, we got a—"

"How many times do I have to tell you, dumbass?" Zolt slams himself to his feet in a less than a second, his hands moving so quickly they appear blurred. A flash of a blue light streaks from the tip of his finger; Mako finds himself unable to see beyond the veil of cobalt that hangs over his eyes like a death-shroud, but the shriek pierces his eardrums even beyond.

Lightning. Streaming. Blue. Noise. Fury. Fear. Death. Stench. Cold. Ice. Frozen. White. Blank. Nothing.

Except the remains, all blackened char, like two ashy forms lying on the street, his cries muffled by the scarf, his tears soaking into the fabric.

The man is dead, dead without one drop shed over his expiration, dead without one spirit caring, dead without cause, without justice, without pity.

Dead.

_Dead_.

Like the little girl in the reeds.

Run. Run. Run. Every part of his body tells him, screams at him, demands that he run, run as he did from the stranger danger man, run as did from the beast, run as he did when Bolin was missing and there was nothing, nothing, _nothing_ he could do, _nothing he could do but run._

But this time Bolin's life is at stake.

He _can't_ run.

He _can't_.

_Can't_.

He comes to with a start, disorientated, the room about him spinning. Stumbling, he bashes his hip against the desk and comes face-to-face with the ground, his upper teeth crashing into the stone, his upper jaw and skull singing with pain.

"You have to _knock_," Zolt finishes, settling himself back into the chair. "Get up, kid. Don't make me do the same for you."

"You k-killed him," Mako stutters, shivering as though in the most freezing blizzard, every iota of heat drawn away from his core and transformed into terror.

"Welcome to real life." Lifting his hand, he blasts a cone of fire from his palm, engulfing the corpse of the man, turning him into soft sable ash that drifts to the jet-black rock floor and is swallowed by the black.

_Run,_ his spirit begs. _Run far away, and never return_.

"I'll do whatever I have to do," he says, his voice flat, "as long as Bolin is safe. Where is he?"

"You'll see him after you prove your loyalty." Taking an object from his pocket, Zolt flashes a knife, the silver edge serrated and flecked with red. "So, we got a deal?"

Mako closes his eyes. "Deal."

"Blood's the only way to make deals." To Mako's horror, the man pulls up his left sleeve, slashes himself just below the elbow, and draws the blade down in a serpentine line, scarlet seeping from the wound, coating his arm. Then he tosses the knife to the nine-year-old, who catches it, but not without cutting his palm, the metal frigid and inhuman. "Your turn."

_For Bolin_. Gritting his teeth, he hesitantly tugs at the fabric, revealing pale skin. He can feel his pulse beneath his fingers where he braces the tip against his flesh. His eyelids flutter; he bites his lip; and he presses the serrated edge, agony threatening to destroy him, and traces out the street on which he lost Mommy and Daddy. Shaking, his knees about to give way, he drops the knife onto the desk, iron on his tongue.

Zolt grabs his elbow and jerks him close, cuts touching, their blood mingling, winding dragons of destiny holding them as one.

He smirks.

"_Deal_."

* * *

End of Part I.


	21. Warm

A/N: Brothers united by blood. Yet blood unites more than family.

Blood is the currency of the world.

The disorientated find glazed minds and softened visions, reality spun into a sugared dream.

The calm before the storm, the eye within the hurricane, the receding tide of the tsunami.

Four seasons slide over each other, and the cycle begins anew.

* * *

Darkness lurking, swelling, feeding at the corners of his vision, growing, pooling.

He stands in the centre of a lake of shadow, his arms thrown out to the world.

"Mommy?"

Wraiths dance, spin.

"Daddy?"

Faster, faster, twirling tightly, beating like hearts, quickening as he runs towards them, his bare feet slamming against the ground, his breaths rapid, his pulse rapider, but the moment he touches them, they disappear, turn into dust carried away on the wicked and wild wind. He can't see their faces anymore, can't hear their voices, and he collapses to the earth, his every thought concentrated on the feeling of his brother's arms around him, of the bright red of the scarf.

The darkness rises up around him, spiralling about his ankles, legs, stomach, arms, mouth, until he can't breathe, the shadow like a cloth over his face, choking him, blinding him, rendering him unable to do anything, and he pushes and strains and—

"_Bolin_."

His name.

His brother's voice.

The suffocating darkness peels away, his lungs filling with needed air, arms around him, his face crushed into warmth that smells of Daddy, wetness soaking his hair.

Shaking.

So much shaking.

"M-mako?"

He can't see anything. Can't hear beyond the beating of his brother's heart. Can't feel but for the rocking of Mako's body.

But it's enough.

It's enough, and it's enough, and it's enough.

"You're s-safe now." The timbre breaks on him as the waves breaking on the shores. Tears, Bolin realises. His brother is crying. So is he. Both of them. "I thought I'd l-lost you."

But he's not safe. Not yet. Struggling for a moment, he squirms out from Mako's reach, his fingers curling around his brother's wrists, and he senses a blanket—the darkness?—shifting under him. Tearing his gaze from the scarf, he jerks back and stares directly at Mako's face.

The hair. The cheekbones. The nose. The lips. The eyebrows.

Bolin's thumb presses under his brother's chin, causing Mako to open his eyes, a film of tears blurring the colour. But gold—bright molten gold—has been liquefied within them.

"_Mako._" Now the name is affixed to the truth. His brother. "You came back."

"Bo, I love you." A shiver runs through him, a tremor through stone, a ripple through water. "I would never leave you."

Bolin doesn't reply, only embraces his brother again. He can't care where they are, be it in the centre of a triad nest or in the den of an armadillo lion. He can't. All he knows is comfort and warmth and _Mako_.

And that's all he needs.

Following a lifetime held in the safest place he's ever been, Bolin allows himself a look around. Wrapped in a beige blanket, they're on a white cot in an otherwise grey room, a solitary window—a full moon glows brightly, framed by patterns of cloud—on the other wall. A lantern hangs on the ceiling, its light weak and yellowish, while a nightstand with a radio surprises him to the right, the grains in the wood hinting of memories of another nightstand, another radio, winters spent listening to many tones and chimes spring to life with the flicker of a finger, music pouring into the air crisp as a sheet of glass, Mommy's singing bringing heat into the room as nothing else. And Mako, joining her in his high alto, the sound swelling into a crescendo, an embarrassing crack on the highest note, a falseness that causes the family to burst into laughter, hugs and smiles the only currency they knew or cared about.

He has a desperate desire to snap the radio on and remember, but for some reason he can't recall the exact beam on Mommy's face. Ignoring what that might mean, he decides the room, wherever he is, is home. Mostly because Mako is here. But also because it's not cold or hot, and he doesn't feel the pain of hunger ripping his stomach into pieces.

Home.

"Where are we?"

"It doesn't matter." He bites his lip, and Bolin gazes at him serenely. Inside, he wants to run around and shake the bed and flip a table, screaming at the top of his lungs for his joy at seeing Mako again, but his limbs feel weighed down. Not in a bad way. In a sort of too-warm-to-move way.

Warmth.

"Where are we?" he asks again, softly this time.

His brother's throat vibrates. "I made a deal with one of the triads, brother, to get you back. The Triple Threats. They said that they knew where you were." He falters, and Bolin notes the purple under his eyes. Overhead, the lantern blinks, the light dimming, the blue of the night-time stealing over its golden glow. "It was the only thing—" Mako grasps his left arm suddenly, his elbow jabbing his brother in the belly, and winces. "—I could do. Please, forgive me. I'm so sorry."

He cocks his head and touches his brother's nose with a forefinger, then traces a line of wet down his cheek, a drop forming on the tip of his nail. "Why are you sorry?"

"What? You're not angry?" The fire in his eyes has died to be replaced with ash, but it kindles once more as Bolin brushes his brother's right hand, fingers still putting pressure on an apparent wound.

"What's wrong with your arm?"

He sees Mako's gaze move left, slipping from shoulder to elbow in a heartbeat. "I made a deal," he whispers again. "I made a deal . . ."

"It's okay," Bolin chirps, reaching up to ruffle his brother's hair. It's then that he notices his own has been cut short, somewhat unevenly, but the thought of Mako carefully firebending away the excess, the black locks dropping away into his lap as he works tirelessly on his sleeping brother, makes him grin. "As long as we're together, we're okay."

He's overjoyed to see Mako smile back, however slightly. "Bo?"

"Yes brother?"

Inhale.

"Happy seventh birthday."


	22. Dawn

A/N: Quiet moment, heavy thoughts, skeletons in the closet.

Regrets come not at dusk but at dawn, when light contrasts the night and shines on sable shades.

The brightest fire casts the darkest shadow.

* * *

The stone roof is cool beneath his thighs, the rising sun marking first light, the gold glinting from the metal and polished rock, spreading like ink over a sheet of paper. He can no longer smell or feel the memory of paper, but he vaguely knows that he adored the scent and powdery smoothness of new books. The recollection is a shard of glass reflecting something behind him, something he cannot see without turning around. But he doesn't dare turn around. Because there lie the monsters. The world starts over. The hurt and pain and death have been swept up under the rug, tossed over the side of the balcony, banished from mind and thought. Yet he doesn't know how he's going to protect his brother yet or what the triad will force him to do, and he cannot stop remembering Hai.

The beast. Standing over her. Fire in the hand, the flames curling around her. Her falling, arms pressing into her stomach, the stench of blood rampant, crimson pooling around her feet, her forehead against the ground, the screams of agony overwhelming.

But he didn't do anything to save her. He stood there naked, shivering, cold behind and heat in front, and his first thought was to save himself.

Save himself.

He can't protect _anyone_. He couldn't protect Hai. He couldn't protect Bolin when his brother truly needed him, couldn't be there. He should have stayed in the pond with his brother or taken his hand and led him up the bank. No. Instead he had to dive for his scarf and treasure a piece of fabric like it's more important than his brother, the only family he has left.

"I'm such an idiot." He grasps the scarf, and it tightens about his throat, choking him. For a year, it's been the thing that has kept him going. But now? Now it's something he can't get rid of, something that tears him up but refuses to leave him. Every time he pulls, it constricts, more and more tightly, threatening to suffocate him until he forgets what is air.

He couldn't protect his parents.

He ran.

When he saw the heat and the brightness and the flash of blue light and the cold and the smoke—

He _ran_.

His legs eating up the distance, his sternum fracturing with every beat of his heart, knives slicing into the soles of his feet, tripping, the earth rushing into his face, the dust coating him, turning him black as the night-time sky. And the confusion, the piles of char and ash, warm and soft appearing in his hands, Daddy's scarf, telling him that he's got to get back, back to the past, back to house, back to his parents being alive, back to Bolin still waiting for his cake.

The sun rises higher, the bursts of fire painting the clouds a vivid saffron. But though they are bright on top, their underbellies are dark, dark as the dust covering his body, dark as what he feels, now, in his heart. Like the city. From the view of a bird—of the lizard with its missing foot—it glitters. But from the view of someone in the street, not all that glitters is gold: The glass is clouded and dark.

The trap door on the roof opening, metal scraping against metal. "Hey, kid. What are ya doin'? You want that street-rat safe or not?"

He lifts his head, tearing his gaze away from the morning light, and glances at the leather-bound girl standing by the trap door, a dagger twirled in her hand. "He's not a street-rat." There's no use in arguing, but he can't let her speak about Bolin like that. "He's my brother."

"I got to give it t' ya." The girl's muscles flex as she spins the blade more quickly, pulling her arm back. "You're a tough 'un, ain't ya? Get ya tough ass over 'ere, then. I ain't going t' ask twice."

Slowly, he raises himself from the floor, spine curving with hesitation, gaze trained on the dagger. The clothes given to him by the triad shift loosely on his body and limbs, his jutting ribs at least hidden somewhat beneath the folds. "What am I going to do today?"

The girl sneers, her teeth more metal than bone, and as the sunlight cradles her face, he notices the pinkish-brown scars across her face and extended down her neck. But the true horror is at her midriff, the exposed slice of skin more akin to minced meat, laced with broken stitches, as if a horde of worms has crawled into her innards and burrowed there, leaving ridges and valleys ascending above the hem of the leather shirt.

"What ya starin' at, huh?" Her red-painted lips curling into a smirk, the girl looks down. "That's what 'appens when ya don't listen t' me, kid." The glint of silver alerts him; his instinct drops him to the floor, lower jaw howling in pain, palms pressed flat against stone, while the rest of him, disorientated, mentally registers that the girl threw the blade. "What ya going be doin' today? I get th' pleas-ah of teachin' ya how t' run numbahs."

The roof, cold on his cheek, tilts under him as he transitions to a crouch, but he doesn't dare open his eyes, aware of the flying colours and dizzying shapes he'll no doubt see. "Numbers?"

"Ya 'n ya brother. Now get up." The _shrrk_ of iron on leather bids him leap up, his head throbbing from the fall. "Spirits take ya. Ya got nothing in ya head but custard, don't ya?" Snickering, the girl turns about. "Bet ya brother's at brekkie's already. Going t' join 'im?"

His breath catches. Again, he's abandoned Bolin without even comprehending his actions. His brother could have died, and he would simply have been here watching the sunrise. "_I'm such an idiot!_"

"Ain't we all?" The girl chuckles again.

His fingers involuntarily pull at the scarf once more.


	23. Blade

A/N: No matter the steps taken, the street is never far.

The story descends to chaos and panic, a respite needed between sable and sable.

The earth is steady and strong, but the fire pulses in beats of blaze and black.

Homeward bound. The incredible journey begins.

Trial by fire lies ahead.

* * *

"Running numbers?"

Stenches of the poor and the deceased bring a tangible weight to the air, the sounds of someone screaming in a distant room fading to background. The bowl is heavy in his grip, and Mako adjusts it carefully, the street gruel slopping over the rim. Bolin doesn't seem to mind: Tipping the bowl over, he's downing the food as if it were a meal from one of the fancy restaurants to which Mommy and Daddy would sometimes take them. As he pushes the fragile music and mouth-watering scents from his mind, Mako returns to the girl standing over them, another dagger spinning in her grasp.

"Ya 'eard me. Runnin' numbahs." The girl smashes the edge of the blade into the table, the tip pinning a scrap of paper to the wood. Bolin chokes on the gruel, the bowl nearly slipping from his hands, and Mako, shifting his to his left, lunges to catch his brother's bowl smoothly with his right. It trembles on his fingertips and begins to tilt, but by then Bolin has returned it to his mouth, a dribble of gruel trickling down his chin. "Nice catch there, sparky. So 'ere's th' idea." The girl lifts her leg and steps on the handle of her dagger, pushing it deeper into the table, slicing it apart as easily as his parents' death sliced apart his life. "People out there, they stupid, right? They like t' believe luck's going t' drop some yuans on their heads. Well that ain't going t' appen."

"Why do you talk funny?"

Mako glances at Bolin, his green eyes wide and bright with innocent naïveté.

The burned remnants of the girl's eyebrows knit together. "What'd ya say?"

"Why do you talk funny?" he presses. The firebender resists the urge to cut in; instead he watches the girl's reaction carefully. "Can't you talk normally, like Mako and me?"

"I don' talk funny." The girl snorts. "Ya talk funnier'n me. So shut ya trap 'n listen, ya fool."

Bolin giggles, and Mako sighs in relief, the crisis averted. "Okay. So what's running numbers?"

"Up 'ere in th' triad, we have a lott'ry goin' on. We pick th' numbahs, 'n ya run t' th' dumbasses on t' street cornahs 'n ya ask 'em their numbahs. Then ya run back, 'n we see if anyone's won. Make sense yet, stupid?"

Putting his meal down into his lap, he frowns and shakes his head. "Isn't that illegal?"

Her condescending stare burrows into his spirit and rips it apart. "'Course it's illegal, sweetie." She smirks, and he notes a chip in one of her few non-metallic upper teeth. "If it wasn't we wuddn't be doin' it, now would we?"

"I don't understand what you're saying," Bolin announces cheerfully through a mouthful of gruel. "Could you—?"

"_Nope_." Her fingers grasp at the hilt of the dagger. "'N if ya open ya mouth one more time, ya'll have t' scrape ya tongue off th' underside of my boot."

Mako's eyes narrow, his breakfast forgotten. "Don't threaten my brother."

"Just lookin' out fer his well-bein's all." Her wrist flicks; the blade protrudes from Bolin's bowl, eliciting a squeak as he scrambles to pull it out, only to jab it back in when the gruel starts to ooze out. "So's it's simple. I give ya kids a map of th' city, 'n ya run 'round like good li'l street rats 'n gemsbok bullshit, 'n then ya collects th' numbahs the agents tell ya."

"Agents?" The earthbender claps excitedly. "Like secret agents?" Under the table, Mako reaches over and gently touches his brother's hand, stroking the palm in a soothing circular motion somehow instinctive to him; he feels Bolin relax and quiet, and the warm weight of his brother's head soon rests on his shoulder. He looks up at the girl to see the smallest smile imaginable twisting her lips in the most horrible way.

The second she catches him studying her—her eyes open widely, then squint—she lets out a barrage of curses that Mako instantly blocks from his ears. "Anyways, ya get th' numahs, 'n then ya bring 'em back, 'n we do th' rest. A'ight?"

The door into the room bursts open, and a nude woman runs through, chased by a man whose gaze full of hunger has been lifted from the beast. Mako's hand is over Bolin's eyes in an instant, his other holding his brother close, and he himself turns away when the pursuit comes to a halt and the man tackles the woman, her never-ending wail of pain more than he can suffer. The girl unleashes a sound and fury, and Mako feels Bolin shudder in his arms while he listens to the beast-man's footsteps steadily drag away, the reluctance of his action—and the muffled moans behind the meaty fist mashed on her mouth—reminding him, again, of Hai.

Once the beast-man is gone, the girl coughs. "A'ight?"

"All right," he repeats uncomfortably, squeezing Bolin's hand, letting him slide from the embrace.

"So go." The girl steps away from the table but allows the dagger to continue to stay there, defiantly sturdy in its occupation of the wood. "Ain't got all day."

Bolin finishes the last of his gruel and places the bowl gently on the table. "Thank you for the meal." He grins. "That was delicious."

"Cork it." She gestures at the door. "If ya morons 'ope t' run, ya'll going t' die, ya 'ear me?"

Mako tenses, knowing that his brother is about to disagree, and laces their fingers, pulling both of away from the table as the girl brings her boot down on the surface, popping the blade free, and throws it expertly at them. The firebender ducks, but Bolin is quick enough to catch it with earthbending. The hilt comes apart, and a scrap of paper—a map—floats into his hand.

Mako lowers his gaze.

The first place to go is the statue of Fire Lord Zuko.

Their old home.


	24. Burn

A/N: A return to the razor's edge between humanity and savagery.

Some scars heal. Others last forever.

No one is safe. All you know is that neither dies. _Or do they?_

* * *

He remembers the children.

The children on their corners, chipped cups rattling with change or shivering in illness-weakened hands, calling out to the passers-by.

Those children.

The children with their hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes speaking of a world beyond this one, a world of hunger and of skin tight over ribs.

The children with tissues splitting to reveal gleaming white bone, dry froth filling their lipless mouths, the soft jelly of the eye pecked away clean.

Those children.

Just the same as the fall before, but for one difference.

This time, when he steps onto the uneven sidewalk, Bolin's hand clenched tightly in his, he does not walk among them, but above them.

Far along the dusty, desolate road ripping through the city—he finds it interesting that the statue of one of the great heroes of the Hundred Year War overlooks the deepest underbelly of the city the former Fire Lord helped create—the same death is happening. The same starvation. The same damning of the city's children.

The same thief slitting open the throat of the naked child with a scrap of dumpling in her mouth. The same satombile swerving past, an elephant rat squeaking as it is crushed under the wheel along with the wrist of a young boy attempting to catch it in a last desperate effort to eat dinner. The same heat driving the crowds into the gutter, tongues lapping at the water splashing up from the sewers, mixed with satomobile exhaust and faeces, one of the jostling throng pushing another into the sewer itself, the victim's leg caught, her face contorted in her unnatural torment, another of the crowd jerking her out and forcing her against the sidewalk and himself into her.

The same everything.

But the brothers have managed out of the cycle. Somehow.

With bending, he supposes. And with determination. And . . . and with a need to protect his brother.

Suddenly, Mako recalls something. His hand slips into his pocket, and he finds the metal screw still comfortably waiting there with its thin threads. "Bo?"

His brother glances at him. "Hi Mako." He grins and pats the satchel containing the map; Mako doesn't understand how Bolin can ignore the skeleton-with-skin that rushes up behind him, only to fall over, the handful of rice spilling like blood onto the street, and it might as well be, the way the denizens of the underworld attack it, every grain rushed underfoot another life passed sometime in the night.

But somehow the children survive. Some of them. And new ones are born every day or are abandoned. It is a vortex of death sucking away the life of the city. And one day the city will be nothing but a boulevard of broken dreams.

He remembers someone saying it, but he doesn't quite know who, the recollection just out of his reach, the tip of his tongue caught in the newt cat's claw.

"Mako?"

The firebender snaps to with a start: Bolin's eyes have remained as bright a green as the day before their lives rearranged like marbles in a shaken jar. He can't get lost in these reveries. He _can't_. The moment he loses sight of—

He's doing it again.

"Here, Bo, I wanted to give you something." The screw leaves a red mark in his palm when he uncurls his fingers, and his brother lets out a squeal of delight.

"My screw!" The earthbender snatches it from Mako's hand, turning it over in his, his entire face lit up like a fire. He looks up at the firebender, his gaze filled with more love than Mako thought existed on the earth.

A flame blazes not two metres away, his bending alerting him to the inferno that spring into life, and in an instant he has spun Bolin behind him and is facing a man with a hat pulled low over his face. "What's that in the bag?" With a hand bearing the tattoo of a snarling dragon, he points to the satchel, his dull eyes hinting at a secret fury. "What's that? What's that?"

"It's nothing." He notices the fire burning in own palm, a seed of flame about to burst from his need to protect Bolin. "Maybe you should step away, sir."

"Sir." The man cackles and snaps his head left and right. "Now where do you see a sir, you ragamuffin?"

Mako sees the to-be-thief's arc of attack begin, and he instantly raises his arm, a semicircle of fire exploding outwards, the infernos mingling in the middle. The man leaps back and moves in to strike again; Mako reacts with a kick to head, but he hesitates for a moment, whispers of murderer in the back of his mind: The jet of fire misses the opponent by a centimetre, and his side crunches agonisingly. The man punches an uppercut, but Mako catches his wrist and twists him shoulder, kneeing him in the stomach with strength pulled from he doesn't even think about where. Abruptly the world spins, his shoulder blades scream, fire slashes down his spine like a razor blade. The sidewalk meets him, his elbows and knees scraped across the unforgiving stone, but he twists about, flaming at everything to keep the man away from his brother.

"Bolin! Run!"

Through his vision filmed with the tears of pain, he watches the man fly backwards through the air and crash into a dumpster. Hands close around him, dragging him up; every time the skin on his spine is stretched, the agony burns him more deeply. Bolin shakes him. "Mako? Mako, are you okay? Mako?"

Slowly, he blinks, trickles of wetness sliding down his cheeks. "Bo, what just—?" Bolin shrugs, but the firebender notices a brief flicker of darkness in the emerald irises. He glances at the satchel. "Never mind. We should go." He makes to walk, but the pain in his spine casts to the ground, convulsing from the deadened weight.

"Mako! _Mako!_"

The burn races his heart.


	25. Wake

A/N: Memories whisper at the corners of our visions in the best of times, in the worst of times.

Pale waterbenders are not of a common stock.

Pleased, the Triple Threats are not. Punishment is in store, punishment of the worst kind.

* * *

Bolin's hands slip under Mako's armpits, and the firebender senses himself being tilted upwards even as his bloodied knees give way under him. When his brother brushes the lower part of the shoulder, Mako cries out in pain, flame spewing from his throat with his desperate need to thrust out the agony bringing tears to his eyes. He can feel the welts forming on his back, the tissue alternatively burned and merely set aflame, the last vestiges of whatever humanity the streets possessed lost in this final attack.

The pain ebbs away, and he realises he can no longer feel his lower torso.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay." Bolin repeats the mantra until the words flow into each other and become meaningless. He squeezes his eyes shut, his pulse pounding, the vein in his temple throbbing, the skin moving with each beat, and he is terrified that that is the last sensation he will be able to savour in his entire life, and he savours it.

"Is this how you died, Daddy?" His throat constricts, his tongue heavy and unwieldy in his mouth. "Fire."

Daddy's voice intermingles with Bolin's. A freshly caught catfish on his plate, the campfire glinting in his gaze, contrasting to the night colours outside the cave. "Be careful, there, Mako. Never forget how hot a flame is." The scent wafting from the skinned fish is so delicious that saliva is filling his mouth involuntarily. "Fire's the giver of life, but it's also the giver of death. Never forget."

"Daddy?" Mako is asking, scooting closer. His fingers are pulling at the meal, the temperature scorching the pads, and Daddy is laughing. "Why can't I firebend?"

"Not everyone can, not even if your eyes have the fire in them." Daddy's infectious smile is finding its way onto Mako's face as well. "Surprises happen all the time. Take your brother." The fish is roasting, the smell inviting, as he's speaking. "Your mother and I were both, well, surprised when he took up earthbending. No one in her family's an earthbender save her great-grandmother. But it was her great-grandmother's earthbending that manifested in Bolin. It was waiting for the right person, like the Avatar Spirit." Adding a touch of oil, he's dropping the fish onto Mako's plate now, using his firebending to extract enough heat to cool it while Mako is staring on in awe.

The meal is melting in his mouth, his teeth sliding through it as a knife through warm egg custard. "What do you think Bo and Mommy are doing right now?"

"I bet Mommy has Bolin on her lap, just so." Daddy's gathering him in his arms. "And she tickles him, just so." Daddy is tickling him, laughter bubbling from his stomach, and he's grasping at the scarf around Daddy's neck.

"Could I get a scarf like that myself one day?"

Daddy is nodding, his hand on Mako's heart. "It'll be your inheritance. I promise you."

Rain is beginning to fall outside, but somehow the water is dripping inside the cave as well, down his back, his skin burning where it's touching, and he is calling for Daddy to save him, but Daddy is disappearing into the shadows, and his skin is burning, and burning, and burning—

Fire blossoms in his palms as he spasms, flaming at everything in reach, but pressure forces his arms down. His eyes open, the darkness swallowing his vision, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, a shudder of fear working through his body and settling in his lower abdomen.

"Mako?"

His brother.

"Both of us are okay. Don't worry. I found help."

Relief courses through him, and he sags back, his muscles relaxing. He's lying on something cool. Wet. Water. He's lying in water. Just as Mako is about to start to panic again, he feels Bolin take his hand. "You were burned pretty badly, brother. But I found someone to heal you. It didn't cost me much."

He sits up abruptly and notes that the skin on his back is almost . . . new. And that he is wearing a shirt even though the would-be-thief burned the old. As his eyes adjust, he looks around: A dark-ish nearly-cave of some sort. His wandering fingers find a bathtub full of clean water.

Bolin kneels next to the tub. There is little light beyond the tinted blue patterns of waves on the cave ceiling. "Where are we?"

"Doesn't matter." A new timbre, a male tone perhaps a few years older than him. A candle light sparks, and Mako can make out a pale face marred by dark circles under the eyes seemingly done in war paint in preparation for a battle. "How do you feel?"

The firebender inhales, a pain in his side. "Okay," he says unsteadily. "Where am I?"

"Sewers. Under the city. Welcome to paradise." The boy steps nimbly closer, his gait inhumanly smooth, his limbs making no sudden motions at all but for those of a wave. "Only did it because of the triad honour code. Anything for a Red Monsoon."

His muscles coil. "A Red Monsoon?"

"'Course. Besides, your friend there had some money on him."

Bolin smiles sheepishly. Mako blinks, then immediately hates himself for it: What if something had happened in that blink? "Where did you—?"

The boy nonchalantly cuts him off. "I did my part. You did yours. Shoo."

Bolin springs to his feet, stumbling a few steps. But the firebender pauses and glances at the pale boy. "How do we know where to go?"

He shrugs. "It's Red Monsoon territory. You should know."

Mako gazes at him for a long moment, his mind whirling, and at last he looks at the darkness dropping away into a labyrinth of tunnels and passages, as many as there are paths he could have taken but didn't.

The question floats out of him, soft and gentle as rain shower, falling up instead of down, as upside down as his life.

"What if we don't?"


	26. Slip

A/N: Special thanks to aloneintoronto for the fantastic new cover.

What comes from the labyrinthine?

Rivers of space, rivers of time, rivers of life and death, a symbol of the future ahead . . . if it is crossed.

* * *

The boy looks confused for a moment. "Aren't you Red Monsoons?" he asks. Mako notices the boy's arm shifting behind his back, and he steps forward, the sewer air dank and frigid. "That kid said you were from the triad."

The firebender narrows his eyes. "Why did you heal me?"

"He said you were from the triad, I told you." The pale waterbender licks his lips with an emotion Mako can't pin down: Nervously? Predatorily? Uncertainly? "And he had money on him."

Mako glances at Bolin from the corner of his eye. "Money? Where did you . . . ah, of course." He has no idea, but that can be discussed later, _after_ he gets the two of them out of this mess. He inhales, and his lungs fill with rank air harboured in the dark, the cold gone from foreign to inhuman as the smooth motions of the boy potentially blocking their escape.

"You're not from the Red Monsoons." The boy's grey eyes glitter dangerously. "He's bends earth; you, fire. I knew it."

"You must be stupid," Bolin interjects, popping out from behind Mako. "I don't even know what the Red Monsoons is, but we're from the triad, just like you asked!"

The boy lets out a high-pitched squeal of a laugh that grates the firebender's ears and causes him to stumble back, his hands over his ears. In an instant, the water from the bathtub is in the air, formed into spikes of ice. His eyes widen, and he frantically punches out, forming a wheel of flame to instantly melt the ice. The taste of copper in his mouth, he unleashes a fiery kick in the boy's direction, sending him into the wall, and grabs Bolin's hand. "Go!"

Mako's gaze is fixed on what appears to the exit, a shallow shortening of the shadow compared to the rest of the cave. A splash of water sends a jolt of vigilance through him, the tentacle of liquid wrapping itself around his ankle, jerking him back abruptly.

"Oh no. No one messes with Red Monsoon territory." His shirt comes up, the rough stone scratching his chest and stomach as he's dragged along the ground, scrabbling for purchase, his fingernails torn off by the jagged rock. In a last-ditch effort Mako spins himself about and stares at the pale waterbender, thrusting his arms forward. A shield of ice blocks the flame; the boy smirks.

"Stay away from my big brother!" The firebender snaps his head backwards in time to see Bolin lift earth up and toss it at the waterbender, who fluidly dodges them, but in the diversion Mako kicks the boy a face-full of fire. The waterbender's cry of pain shatters his eardrums, the agony shooting through his skull and down his back, the base of his spin cold as ice. Bolin's hand clasps his shoulder. "Mako?"

The firebender struggles to his feet. "Bo." He scans the situation: The waterbender down, straining back up, at the far end of the cave. The brothers at the front of the cave, a few metres away from the exit. The ceiling, glistening with moisture. Inspiration hits him like a rock to the head, and he glances at Bolin, whose emerald eyes brighten. They nod to each other. "Bring the house down."

The earthbender closes his fist. The ceiling shakes. Another, and a few cracks appear, each one twisting and reaching towards the waterbender, now on all fours, covering his face with his hands.

"No." The boy's moan flows over them as surf over the barren shore. "_No_. You wouldn't."

Bolin hesitates for a moment. Mako lowers his eyelids, turns away, crosses his arms over his chest, half of him shrieking to force his brother to do it, to protect them, to ensure a safe escape, half of him begging him to stop Bolin.

No more noise. His brother, still pausing, quivering with the power to potentially end someone's life.

Mako feels Bolin grasp his hand. "Come on, Mako! Run!" He looks back for a moment at the shaking body of the waterbender who could yet again attack them and keep them from freedom, and he wonders what to do. But then his brother is pulling him on. "Mako! _Come on!_"

His feet pound into the ground, every step another step to escape, to freedom, to the only sort of safety the street can provide: Opportunity. Every footfall nearly causes him to slip on the slick floor, the wetness slowing his escape from the cave, but at least the end of it is in sight, the blue glow changing to a sickly green that whispers of death and disease, the cave widening into a vast circle, like a massive maw opening to swallow them whole. He hears the dull roar of water, and his gaze flickers to the roof: Patterns of blue and green light, like waves. His revelation knocks the wind out of him.

"Bolin—wait—Bo—"

His brother gazes back at him, their fingers interlaced. "Mako? What's wr—"

Bolin steps from the lip, his legs pedalling the emptiness for a moment, and then he is gone in the darkness, his scream cleaving the heavy air. His hand. _His hand_. Mako twists backwards, Bolin's life in his grasp, and grabs his brother's arm with his other hand as well, keeping him up. "Bo!" His brother's scream is never-ending. The firebender feels himself slide, his heels ripped up, blood welling from the wounds. "Bo! You have to earthbend yourself back up! _Bo!_"

"_I—can't—_" his brother gasps out, the words bounding and rebounding off the walls of the sewer, and Mako picks up the sound of speaking somewhere below them.

"Bo! _Please_!"

His feet are slipping. It's too wet, a watery world, a watery grave.

Bolin screams again, and Mako slides to the edge of the lip, his worst fears confirmed: Below them is nothing but the sloshing sewer river, the darkness too great to determine the drop.

Scream.

Slide.

Slip.


	27. Drown

A/N: Time is relative. To gravity. To space. To emotion.

Blood on the hands, blood on the feet, a wooden barrel of salvation.

Divine intervention? Merely coincidence? Ash blown about remains ash.

* * *

Scream.

Slide.

Slip.

Fall.

Down.

He doesn't know how he knows he's falling, only that he is. One moment, the ground is firmly under his feet, supporting him, no matter how damp it is. The next the rug has been pulled out from under him, pushing down the slippery slope, like his parents, there one moment, gone the next, gone from his life but for myth and legend, the words still on his tongue.

_Getting cake_.

Like every life on the street, there one moment, gone the next. A knife sliced into delicate tissue and fragile ribs, intestines spilling into the street or clutched in bloodied hands, fingers broken under hard-tapped boots. The winds of winter catching one unguarded, a simple cough turning into a raging fire that burns until there is nothing left but cold ash and colder skin, sharp beaks shearing apart soft jelly, ripping out the tendrils at the back of the sockets, clear fluid dripping down black feathers. Or an easy collapse in the centre of the road, fingers pressed into the skin stretched taught over the stomach, bones rippling under fingers, the pain in the belly too great to heal no matter what is done, until at last the darkness calls, eyelids lowered, breath escaping, gurgle of blood thick in the throat, ragged clothing suddenly wet as muscles relax, the chaotic grip of life severed, replaced with the cooling touch of death.

There one moment, gone the next.

Falling, he realises he doesn't know his parents' names.

Falling, he realises his brother hasn't stopped screaming.

Falling, he realises that he has done nothing, caught for a blaze of hopelessness, and he instantly looks down, the water rushing up to them rapidly. Bolin's arm is still in his hands; taking the opportunity, he flips both of them around, squeezes his brother tightly, and closes his eyes.

"Earthbend." The word whispers from him, emptying into his brother's ear. "Bo, you have to."

But his brother is shaking too fiercely.

And the walls could be metal for all he—

His back snaps itself forward, the back of his head exploding into agony, his world transformed into a sheet of paper, an inky blackness materialising in front of him. The lizard crow with the missing foot, its beady sable eye burrowing into his spirit, the pink V on its chest a scar from an earlier fight in an earlier time, its caw breaking him—

The current sweeps him under the surface of the river of sewage, the stench nearly suffocating him alone. Bolin clings tightly to him, arms and legs hooked around his body as though Mako were his brother's lifeboat, but he's more of a piece of driftwood caught in the storm.

A wave of sewage water splashes over them, sending them under. His blood roars in his ears. Heart pound. Water rush. Inhale, exhale. Kick. Beat. Beat. Kick. Swim. Move. Water again. Kick. Air. He needs air. His chest from his shakes, his existence shaved down to two words: Bolin, and water. Three, now. Air. _Air_. Frantic, Mako inhales rank water, the sudden pain in his lungs bringing darkness to the corners of his vision. No. He has to stay awake.

Kick. Beat. Move. Kick. Swim. Move. Kick. Swim. An irregular rhythm, one that grows progressively slower, progressively weaker, progressively floating away. A sharp object crashes into him, dull blade tearing his arm, and is cast away, but the wooden barrel is salvation. Letting go of Bolin for the moment, Mako grabs at the drifting object, the edges cutting into his palms and the pads of his feet as he climbs up onto it. His head chills abruptly, and he breathes in deeply, his vision clearing at last. Under him, Bolin begins to hyperventilate as well; the earthbender's grip grows tighter, Mako's pulse not yet thinking of returning to normal.

"It's okay, Bo." He can't hear his own words for the drums in his ears. Blood wells from his hands and heels. Gloves would be useful. Gloves and shoes. The barrel jerks as it is pushed roughly through the waters, spinning about, and it is all he can do to hang on, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers of his left hand clenched tightly in Bolin's hair, his right scratched by the rough wood. The rapids rip them up, toss them about, spin and twirl them as if they were a leaf in the wind. Several times, the barrel threatens to dunk down, but it resurfaces, breaking the vomit-green surface of sewage.

After a time, Mako feels the river collect, a curious serenity stealing over them, and he cautiously opens his eyes: The current has indeed steadied, and he can see to the end of the sewage where there appears to be a sidewalk of some kind, or at least a place to stand.

As he gazes at that sliver of safety, his arms shake, and he collapses onto the barrel, depleted, a streak of scarlet running through the black of Bolin's hair. His brother unwinds his limbs. They drop to the wood with quiet thumps, as of fiery birds alighting on a fence wire, the fear coiling his muscles draining away with nothing to replace it.

"M-mako?" Bolin's eyebrows knit together, his face covered in tears and sweat, blood trickling down from his hair. "Mako, what's going on?"

"We're going to be okay." The firebender opens and closes his hands, embers flickering weakly in the centres, put out almost instantly by the flow of blood. The wood has bitten into him, a cursed bite, but he doesn't think Bolin will be able to pull another miracle from his pocket for all the earthbender's cattish smiles and brilliant eyes.

A shark rat glares at them from the edge of the sewage, its long scaly nose twitching in the air, stretching to its formidable metre-long length prior to leaping into the waters, the sharply ribbed fin disappearing under the surface.

Mako exhales; Bolin embraces him.

Then, from nowhere:

"_Hey_!"


	28. Twice

A/N: Ash return, but when the fire is gone, the grey may not bring life.

A descent to the darkness, wielding the barrel that carried him, blood yet trickling.

_Should_ they return to the Triple Threats? An opportunity for escape has presented itself, an opportunity they may be wise to take. For Zolt does not pity those who break deals of blood . . .

* * *

The red and gold hairpiece is gone, as is the protruding stomach, but Mako would recognise the raven hair and hardened amber eyes from anywhere.

"_Hai!_"

Her brownish-grey robes flapping behind her, she kneels down at the edge of the sewer and gestures for the brothers to come towards her. A splash somewhere in the sewage behind the barrel causes Mako to glance back, worried, but he can't see anything.

"Shark rat," Bolin says softly. "It was a shark rat." The firebender's heart, at last given some rest, speeds up once more; panicking, he reaches down to paddle through the water, his palms stinging from the sewage. "Mako I can see the _fin_."

The firebender turns back behind him, a flame blazing in his hand, and locates the brown fin dipping in and out of the green-tinged waters, diving under to slip past floating flotsam. Back at Hai. Back at the shark rat. If the predator is out for them, there's no way they'll make it to Hai, and the fire grows stronger.

"Don't do that!" Hai calls out, but Mako's only concern at the moment is getting away from the predator gliding towards them, the scaly tail flipping back and forth below the broken surface. He counts three seconds, raises his arm, and fires a bolt of flame.

The shark rat squeaks as the tongue of fire licks the water, and then the sewage explodes.

The detonation sends Mako, Bolin, and the now-smashed-in-half barrel flying into the wall; falling jerkily to the ground, the firebender dodges the rest of the debris and raises the barrel up in front of him and his brother for protect, bracing himself against it until a powerful grip snags it out of his grasp.

Hai glares at him. "You haven't learned anything, have you?"

Bolin leaps up, springing immediately up from the dangerous situation, and tackles Hai, squeezing her tightly. "Hai where have you been we haven't seen you in forever what's been going how are the babies?" he bursts out breathlessly. Mako notes the lack of a curve on her belly, and he has a sinking feeling that that memory of the beast and the blood might not have entailed a safe delivery. He remembers when Bolin was born; the amount of blood has seared the image into even his two-year-old mind. He sees the shiver run through Hai's form as she latches onto Bolin, then pushes him away.

"I lost them," the woman responds crudely.

The earthbender's eyes widen, his eyebrows slanting, his mouth making a strange squiggle motion as if torn between answering, frowning, and crying. Mako bows to her. "Thank you for saving us. Twice, now."

Hai snorts. "You're welcome. Now what the Spirit World are you doing down here?" She looks left and right, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Don't tell me you've gotten tangled with the Red Monsoons."

"No." Mako helps Bolin up and gives him a one-armed embrace. "We _are_ working with the Triple Threats, but they're not expecting . . . _that_ out of us."

"Do you even know what _that_ is?" She mimics the high-pitched break in his voice. "Why are you with a triad again? It's not even winter. You lasted barely a season without having to fall back on something?"

He touches the scar on his arm, the picture of the long and winding street on which his parents flashing in a blink. "I had to find my brother," he says quietly. "It wasn't by choice."

"I was lost!" Bolin breaks in. "There was this nice lady with a pink scarf—I got some money off of her like you taught me Mako—but I left because she said you weren't alive."

Staring at his brother, Mako hears the words but doesn't quite understand them. Hai puts a finger to her lip, shushing the earthbender, and looks severely at the older brother. "Where are you two going?"

"We were running numbers." He isn't sure why, but he drops his volume down to a whisper. For the first time, the thought hits him, and his gaze snaps to Bolin: Yes, the satchel is still snug around his brother's torso. "But there was a thief." The skin on his back crawls, the burn healed on the outside but not in his thoughts. "Bolin pulled a miracle. A waterbender healed me, I think."

"And we ended up out here," his brother finishes, pointing wildly at the edge of the sewer. "After we fell off from other there."

Almost sadly Hai shakes her head, rubbing her elbows. "Mako, you're, what, ten years old? And already you pick your words as seriously as a lawyer. I hate what the street does to children." Another snort. "Nah, there _are_ no children on the street. Only those who grow up, and corpses. That's all you got and all you're ever going to get. Now come on. I'll get you outside."

Something in him causes him to pick up the remaining piece of barrel as well, hefting it over his shoulder like a shield. His veins constrict when he thinks of the Triple Threats. At least they have the numbers. Mako isn't certain how long he was unconscious, but it couldn't have been more than a few hours. If they hurry, maybe they won't be in as much trouble. He doesn't know how numbers work, but the girl with the throwing knives mentioned something about not being valid.

Their light burning in her hand, Hai leads them swiftly through the sewer, firebending at shark rats along the way, their charred bodies dropping into the sewage and drifting along. Their footsteps echo eerily in the darkness, their breathing amplified, but the Red Monsoons leave them alone. In fact, Mako sees no one else alive, though a handful of skeletons here or there are hidden in the corners, like skeletons in a closet.

The stale air carries weight on his eyelids, pressing down upon him, but he trudges forward, leaden limbs struggling to follow Hai.


	29. Faith

A/N: The numbers, fortunately, are valid. For now.

Do the spirits exist? Does it matter? Do they care?

Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time.

* * *

Step. Step. Step. Light. Step. Step. Breathe. Step. Ahead. Run.

Up a ladder, through an opening, and bright light. _Light_. Fresh air. _Air_.

Bolin is the first one out, his hands pulling up out of the trapdoor in moments, and Mako follows: Night-time, a full moon lighting with a silvery shine the path through the shadows of the street, a lone street lamp pooling warming yellow light in the road where they stand. The earthbender starts to laugh, lifting his arms be engulfed by the freedom swirling around him, the late hour wind whipping through his hair, kissing his bare skin, welcoming him back from the choking, air-less world. His hands shiver with the memory of being so scared he wasn't able to earthbend, but he laughs all the more loudly, shattering the still silence, to make up for it.

His brother shushes him; Bolin sees the reason clouding his golden eyes: Fear of being caught. He watches Mako scour their whereabouts, and at last he bobs his head. "Yes," his brother says to Hai, her outline stark and foreign against the light of the street lamp. "I know where we are."

"Good. I can't get tangled up with the triads a second time." Her fingers flutter by her belly for a moment like sparrowkeets alighting on a newly leafed branch. It tenses into a fist, her fingernails jabbing into her flesh, a thin vein on her arm bulging in her barely contained anger.

"Why were you in the sewers?" Mako asks quietly.

Bolin grins at her, eager for the answer, and moves to touch her arm encouragingly. Hai steps backwards, an expression he cannot name sweeping over her sharpened features for a moment. "Don't worry about it. Ignorance is bliss."

His brother begins to speak, but Bolin interjects: "Are you leaving, Hai?"

"I have to. Take care of yourselves." Her amber eyes become moist, then harden to glowing coals. "Keep your noses clean. I can't rescue you every time."

Mako nods. "Thank you."

"May the spirits watch over you," Bolin offers, the wind whispering the words through him without him wondering what they speak.

Hai turns around, a strand of raven hair snapping in the night-time wind; passing from light to shadow, she becomes a silhouette in the dark, her form mingling naturally with the black. "They don't exist." Dumbfounded, Bolin dashes forward half a metre, desperate to wave her down and question the meaning behind the seemingly unbelievable sentence, but she has melted into her surroundings, disappeared perhaps forever, and he pitches forward, the road rushing up to meet him. A hard grip on his wrist, a dribble of wetness sliding down his arm. Mako pulls him up, and Bolin notices the blood still trickling from his brother's wounds.

"Come on. They'll be expecting us. We can't be late, Bo."

Half in light, half in dark, caught straddling the line at the crossroads, Mako looks, to Bolin, like a spirit himself, otherworldly, inhuman, with wisdom beyond his nine years. More _thousands _of years. "Brother? Hai said the spirits . . . don't exist." Mommy's nightly prayers echo in his ears.

Clearly troubled by the question, Mako closes his eyes, the line of his mouth tightening. "Maybe they don't."

The world crashes into itself, the ground dropping out from beneath him, his heart vanishing into the star-jewelled skies. "No way!" Bolin responds fiercely, hugging himself and recalling Mommy's embrace. "Mommy told me the spirits are real. They listen to us if we try hard enough." Raising his head, he looks up at the moon, watching protectively from overhead, the eye of the spirits gazing over everything. "Mommy says that the spirits help us in any way they can, if we're good people. I think we're good people. Maybe that's why we're okay: I think the spirits sent Hai to us. The spirits led us out of the sewer!"

Mako wipes his palms on his shirt. "No. I did that. Hai did that. You did that. If the spirits exist, they don't listen to us. We're just a couple of poor kids on a street somewhere." His voice drops. "No one cares about us, Bo."

Bolin shakes his head and stumbles backwards, his breaths fast, his pulse faster. Backing away as if Mako were a monster, he trips and falls, the jarring pain flitting up his spine and soaring into his skull, shaking it as though it were in the midst of a tempest. "Brother? What are you saying? _I _care about us! _You_ care about us!"

"The spirits don't." His brother lowers his hand, and Bolin takes it uncertainly, drawing himself up. "It doesn't matter, Bo. I love you." He pulls the earthbender into a hug, lifting him up from the ground.

"Love you back." Bolin sniffles, the night no longer so comforting or free, but Mako tilts him over his shoulder and starts to carry him, and the warmth returns. "Where are we going?"

He can sense his brother's smile, even if he can't see it. "It doesn't matter. We're going together."

The walk is forever. Bolin watches the footsteps take shape in scarlet, a trail of blood, droplets scattered like crumbs, on the stone. Mako never falters, never shakes, never hesitates, until the environment becomes one that Bolin can recognise: The Fire Lord Zuko statue, flame burning strongly. As long as that flame burns, they are safe. The spirits will see to that. He _knows_ they're out there.

Mommy says they're out there.

He touches the screw in his pocket, fingering the thin threads. One day, he'll be able to metalbend it. One day, he and Mako will go back to their real house, and he'll put his hand in the cookie jar, and there will be cookies in it. And the old drawing he did on the wall will be there.

And maybe, if he prays hard enough, Mommy and Daddy will be there, too. With cake.

But they don't have to be.

Mako is here.


	30. Whip

A/N: Shackles and steel poles and whips, oh my.

One must never ask for more pain, Winston. Never ask.

What did you do at nine years of age?

* * *

Punishment. The satchel disappearing into the cloak of the girl with the scars ribboning her stomach, her hard eyes sparing not a thought of pity for the trials and tribulations through which the brothers have gone.

Punishment. The iron pole rising from the centre of the barren square room, the shackles about his wrists, rusted and serrated metal biting into his flesh, more wounds to add to those already scabbed on his palms. His knees ache from the cold floor, the rough pebbly texture imprinted in red on the skin; his head, bowed forward, shakes from the torture in his neck, keeping it tilted.

Punishment. The crackle of the whip held in the hand of she who knows how to use it, the tail slithering across the ground as she snaps it, cleaving the air in half. "Ya late," the girl intones solemnly. "'N ya got t' get punish'd."

Mako braces his forehead against the cool iron, his fingers twitching with anticipation of the pain to come, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes no matter how much he attempts to stop them. At least Bolin isn't being punished; at least Bolin isn't even in the room; at least the numbers weren't _stale_, merely an inconvenience.

"Ya ready?" He does nothing in response, afraid that even a single motion could give away his terror. The whip shrieks loudly enough to surprise him into jerking up. And then his vision flashes white and black, the agony ripping through him a moment later, his entire existence concentrated into a line on his back and the similar one on his left arm, pain shearing him in and out of life, his veins feeling as though they are bursting, the mirror of whoever he is shattered into shards and scattered across an endless sea of torture, every pulse of his heart doing nothing but bringing more blood to carry the agony back to the core of his body.

Wetness fills his mouth, the taste of copper flooding over the edge, speckles of scarlet splattering the stone. The sea is swallowed, forced back into him, receding down his throat, coating the rim with the promise of pain, more pain than he could stand, more pain than he could survive, tears flowing down his cheeks, the tracks of salt left behind burning.

No nobility, no strength, no pride. Nothing. Only pain and fear.

"One," the girl counts, wiping her face and bending her fingers prior to grasping the handle again. The cut across his back has settled into a sharp throb, and two against the other would be—

A blaze of skin torn apart, the purple-white banded edges of reddish muscle curling out from the wound, knotted together at the base.

"Two."

His scream bubbles through the blood in his mouth, crimson trickling down his chin; nearly choking on his blood, he half-spits and half-vomits the liquid out, still screaming, his throat constricting. He fights to loosen the strain of his throat, allow himself to breathe, and, finally, with a gurgle speaking of a man about to pass, he expels the liquid, spraying the iron with red.

"Thr'." The girl gags. "Can't ya stop th't? Ya got two more, 'n then ya done."

Again, there is no response. Mako breathes through his nose, the air sickly sweet with the scent of blood, his mouth too raw and sore to let the breath pass over, his flesh puckering, tearing itself away from him in the torment of inhaling.

By the time the fourth one steals away the last shreds of his self, the tears have stopped. There is nothing left inside: His stomach is empty, his veins are empty, his eyes are empty but for the _pain_, the true equaliser of the world, capable of stripping away one's humanity and transforming it into an animalistic urge to stop the pain. Stop it. He would do anything—_anything_—to stop it. Anything.

The shackles prevent him from collapsing to the floor, but that is what he wants more than anything: To collapse. And to stop the pain.

Anything. Turn over his possessions. Give up his scarf. Leave his brother.

His eyes open involuntarily; he struggles to straighten himself but fails, falling back onto the pole, slick with blood.

_No_.

"No." The first word he has said since coming in here. "_No_."

"Shut ya trap." Mako senses her lift the whip, and he closes his eyes. The tears helped, but he has none left. He has given everything but Bolin. And Bolin he will never, ever give.

Flashes of white and black, the new slice crisscrossing his back in the opposite direction from the first. In that second he forgets anything he has ever said or done, words and actions washed away, patterns of darkness and light fracturing across his vision.

"Five. Ya done."

Her hands touch the shackles, and his pain turns to rage, flame bursting from within, an inferno just below the skin, consuming him. "Wait!" he manages to gasp out, struggling to subdue the fire flickering in his mouth. "Don't do that!"

"Ya bein' daft. Stupid street rat." The girl flips the key up and inserts it into the lock.

"Don't." His voice breaks, caught between the primal hunger for blood and his own thoughts, his own morals, his own humanity. He feels like he is about to explode from the flame within him. Distantly, distantly he recalls this same feeling from another time, another place, another lethal mix of fear and pain, the bolt of lightning crashing at his feet, his parents' screams, his terror, his unending terror, his spirit-devouring terror destroying _Mako_ and leaving . . . the fire.

The memory cools him in an instant, his inner panic turned to dull dread.

The key turns. The shackles drop. So does he, the ground cool against his cheeks.

"Git up. Ya got t' go do ya job."

Mako does nothing, and the girl hoists him over her shoulder, his only thought of Bolin.


	31. Pass

A/N: Not all scars heal. Even if those outside go away, those inside never do.

Overeating. Anything to escape the danger of starvation. Dangers no longer present hover as wraiths, always behind one's shoulder, always visible in the mirror, always breathing just loudly enough to be heard.

Protection. Rare as diamond. Innocence. Rare still. But does rarity always signify good?

* * *

The brownish-red scars, fresh on his back, heal slowly, steadily, agonisingly, blurring as they do, fading from a russet of sickness and death to a dull crimson to a light pink feathering across his back. As they fade, Mako gains other things, more useful things. A map of the city, no longer hidden in a satchel but imprinted in his mind, the hideouts of rapists and nests of thieves filed away. He doesn't understand the phrases that float through his ears, not quite: The girl with the ribbons of scars on her stomach, Jira, whispers of words he struggles to block out but knows he can't. Rape, she hisses under the darkness of night, her deft fingers working with a lock-pick to pop open a crude safe. Not desiring the skill but needing to please her, he takes the pick and inserts it carefully into the lock, threading it into the tumblers inside and cautiously opening each, one ear tuned to her coarse timbre.

He doesn't understand the meanings, but he understands the urgency. Whatever it is, it's not good, and the places where the rapists lurk should be avoided at all costs.

The muggers he can comprehend a bit better. The thieves. The jumpers. He sees the reason, understands what they do, doesn't leap into that fray.

Mako has to focus on protecting himself, on protecting Bolin, on protecting his brother's innocence. That word, too, he doesn't _know. _But it's important. And it has to be protected.

He isn't sure why.

Over several weeks he realises the safest route through the city to the corners and boroughs where the numbers for the lottery are collected on tiny strips of paper. They shuffle in the satchel when he brings them back to the triad, and the man in charge of the lottery picks out tiles and writes the day's numbers scrawled on the board. Then comes the difficult part: Rummaging through the proffered numbers, checking to see which ones are actually winners and which are not. And, of course, at the end of the day, a few winners go up in smoke, the papers 'lost' on accident, Jira's smirk widening each time the ash falls to the floor. No one sweeps it, not yet. At the end of the day everything is swept under the rug.

Bolin preoccupies himself with learning the inner workings of the triad, his cattish smile, innocent eyes, and naturally round body, although malnourished, make him welcome most everywhere. Mako isn't certain what he feels about his brother making friends with the triad members, and he makes a note to tell Bolin to stick close.

There's something the firebender can't trust about the triad.

But at least now they are eating. Not too well. Bowls of steamed white rice and scraps of meat so few and far between his mouth waters for fish again. But he eats everything, every grain, every droplet of soup, every lick of gruel. His body fights against it, bile rising in his throat, but he forces it down with hints of tears in his eyes.

His brother isn't like that. Bolin eats as much as he can, more and more quickly, his jutting ribs starting to be hidden beneath muscle and fat once more. But he doesn't stop there. He continues to eat unless the food is taken away, continues to armadillo wolf it down until it comes back out again. Mako never stops him but holds him when the earthbender pushes the chair away roughly from the table and collapses to the floor, his shoulders jerking back and forth, his throat almost bubbling with the vomit, his entire body spasming as he retches, pools of multi-coloured fluid soaking the ground.

Mako cleans up, wiping the remains from his brother's face and from the floor. He knows why Bolin is doing this, knows that the hunger of the street can never be forgotten, knows that there were too many times they could have starved.

Too many.

Jira never speaks on it either, her nose wrinkling from the stench, her only comment a warning of the waste of food. Mako merely continues to hold Bolin, keeping him tethered to the world, promising to never, ever let go.

"You can eat what you want," he says softly. "I'll clean it up."

His brother's response is a grin. "I love you too bro."

"I love you back, Bo."

More running, more numbers, more lessons in how to steal and how to lie, the days melting into each other. For a time Mako comes to expect the sunrise, but when he realises it, he stops. He takes nothing for granted. Not himself. Not his brother. Not his scarf.

Daddy's scent lingers in legend, but by now the scarf carries only Mako's: Sweat, tears, blood, rain, vomit. A mixture that is somehow comforting, a memory of what he has escaped on virtue of being a bender.

The scars on his palms, too, have started to fade, the memories of the trauma receding further and further. Life with the triad is not ideal. Never ideal.

But it is better than the street. Better than the hunger burning knives into their feet at every step, better than the cold settling like death about them when they curled up together in an alleyway, better than the fear that something would take them in the night, that they would never awaken again, that the mockingly shiny moon hiding in the dirty grey clouds would be the final image they saw.

But they're safe now, as the nights roll by.

On occasion he stills wakes up in the midst of the night, a scream in his throat and a fire in his palm, forgotten when he feels Bolin cradled in his lap, snoring gently, his head pressed against Mako's chest, the tip of his hair bobbing up and down with each breath. His hair is growing out again. Soon, he will have to cut it once more.

For now, he sleeps.


	32. Swim

A/N: Optimism? Optimism optimism!

The winter of darkness gives way to spring, the sun rising weakly over the horizon.

Grief gives way to love.

* * *

In the flood of darkness, no one can swim forward. Drowning under the deluge he paddles onwards, though the current pulls him downstream. But up is where he must go, until another wave sends him down, down into the barren surf, the sky overhead black and barren as a field of ash, the moon swept beneath a tide of bloodied stone.

Swimming for so long in the darkness, he cannot remember _why_. Why must be push forward? Why must he struggle and strain? Why?

Flame springs to his hands, ignites his fingers, reminds him of the power he controls, to bring light to the shadows. But it isn't an answer.

Why swim against the current?

Mommy and Daddy aren't there to tell him to swim anymore.

_Why swim?_

And then he remembers.

"Bro?"

Bolin's voice, high and sweet in the night-time. From the bed, Mako raises his head, extinguishing the fires in his palms: His brother's silhouette is framed in the doorway, the light from the lanterns behind him granting him a halo of gold.

"Mako, I'm hungry." Bolin sniffles and walks across the room, his footsteps familiar and oddly comforting in Mako's ears, and he climbs into the cot, curling up in the firebender's lap. "I went out to get a midnight snack and couldn't find anything."

Something melts in Mako, a shard of ice around a hardened heart that forget how to be a brother and knew nothing but how to survive. It's not about _surviving_ on the street. It's about _living_. "Oh, Bo . . ." he whispers. "I'm sorry. Come on, maybe I can find something tasty."

His fingers curl around Bolin's, and he slips from the bed, carrying his brother across the room. Bolin wriggles out of his embrace at the threshold. "I have feet!" the earthbender chirps. "I can walk."

The smile on Mako's face is the first in forever, his last caught in an ancient past so long ago his muscles twitch and try to recall the movements. Immediately the frown snaps it back into shape, yet he swims against the current. He doesn't remember. Doesn't remember how to smile. But Bolin's easy grin remind shim, and he smiles, a simple joy flooding his body, the pain and grief and anger coiled in his innards draining to the ground, his brother's hand in his and arms around his waist and the smile on his face forcing the hurt built up over the months to subside.

For a moment, he is horrified.

Not in himself, but in what he might have been.

But Bolin is always there. Why didn't Mako see it before?

Though the hallway is shadowy and foreboding, the endless black stretching in front of him, punctuated by sickly yellow lanterns casting shallow pools, oases of dim glow amidst the desert of darkness, but somewhere beyond the edge is the true light. At the end of the horizon, at the end of the world, at the end of the line.

He'll swim there. Against the current. And when it makes it, he will never have to fear again. Now the true struggle is remembering _why_ he swims.

Bolin.

They swim together.

That's why he swims.

Because they can swim together.

Faint noise at the bottom of the well and scents of cooking meat and stewing gruel greet him, his mouth watering, his stomach curling in on itself in anticipation of a meal, and Mako inhales to steady himself, the fumes of food making him lightheaded. The door to the makeshift kitchen is ajar, a radio playing a curious type of music that calms him, the soft notes a different calibre than he's ever heard. Bolin beams and moves closer to the door, but Mako holds him back with a careful hand. He peeks over the frame of the door, his body curving protectively around his brother's. But Bolin pokes his head out from under the firebender's arm and glances past, his eyes widening.

"It's a lady." He giggles. "She's kind of fat."

"Ssh." Mako checks for himself, and Bolin is right: There _is_ a woman in the kitchen, humming tunelessly as she makes a meal, the ladle in her grip mixing something that smells like ocean kumquats. Few in the triad are _given_ food; he's already understood that much from his time here. But some _are_. Himself and Bolin, and some of the other children. Run numbers, receive food. Watching the woman languidly stir the pot, Mako calculates the best way to grab some food.

Then Bolin squirms out of his reach and lands heavily on the floor, springing up at a moment's notice. Gasping, the woman swings about, brandishing the ladle like a weapon, droplets of scalding liquid spraying. The earthbender grins at her. Mako watches her expression soften, her hard green eyes turn liquid. "Oh, and who might you be?"

Bolin laughs. "I'm Bolin, and I'm only seven and a half years old. That's my brother, Mako. He's the best brother _ever_."

"Mah-koh?" The woman's brow furrows. "Where is he?"

His brother points to the entrance. Mako hesitates, his nails digging into the wood of the door, but at last he steps forward, trusting Bolin to make the right decision. "Hello, Mako here."

She beams broadly, showing orange-tinted teeth, and taps the ladle to the rim of the pot, the brownish-purple mass roiling within not something he wants to try. "What can I do you for, then?"

Mako doesn't know how to respond to this kindness, this faith, this willingness to help. There has to be a trick, a trap, a secret motive or hidden reason. _Something_. He can't be lulled by the music, can't lower his guard, can't do anything that would put Bolin in danger.

"My brother and I are hungry," he starts, his gaze snapping from the ocean kumquats to trays of smoked bird he identifies as eel pigeon to a chocolate cake.

The woman chuckles warmly. "Take all you want. Can't say no to hungry boys."


	33. Tart

A/N: A new character.

A new path.

A new hope.

* * *

Mako smiles.

Hope.

He doesn't recall when he last—

No.

It's not the time for recollections, for remembering things past, for dwelling on the bad.

It's time to eat.

"Bo?"

Bolin is already halfway across the kitchen, exploding in _thank you thank you thank you_s and glancing about as if deciding what to eat first. "You don't have a magic conch that could tell me, do you?" he asks, grinning at Mako.

"That old radio show . . ." Running across the room, surprised at how wide each of his strides is, he reaches out to grab Bolin and picks him up, hugging his brother tightly. Bolin squirms out of the embrace, laughing, but Mako hugs him all the more tightly and swings him around, his brother's mirth infectious. Soon they've dissolved into a pile of hugs and laughter, and he ruffles his brother's hair fondly, wondering at the two spikes poking out at the back. Mako touches the back of his head and feels something similar, the hair naturally spiking up as Daddy's did. Before he can say anything, Bolin suddenly gasps and flails his limbs, pointing frantically at the cake quivering on the counter.

"Cake," he cries out, his shoulder blades arching into the firebender's chest, a stray foot kicking him in the leg hard enough to cause him to wince. "_Cake!_"

Still holding Bolin, Mako carries him to the counter, almost like a procession or a festival, until the earthbender is mere centimetres away from the soft café mass begging to be eaten, a curl of dark frosting hanging tantalisingly over the edge. The firebender's mouth curiously doesn't water but dries instead. Cake. What happens if, after all this time, they finally . . . _get cake_? The thought is unfathomable to him, but his brother is a different matter, the light in his eyes bright enough to bring out a shine in Mako's. Eagerly Bolin strains, his fingertip nearly at the frosting, but the woman with the ladle calls out.

"That's for the big boss." She waves the ladle, tapping it on Mako's head. The fire-hot wood bids him hiss out a breath from the abruptness of the pain. "You can have anything else."

Nodding, he tries to move away from the counter, but Bolin continues to struggle. "No! I—want—_cake!_" His feet press onto Mako's thighs as he attempts to launch himself onto the cake; Mako spins around and manages a better hold.

"Bolin?"

"_No!_" A storm of motion, strong enough that the firebender can barely control it. "I want that cake!"

The firebender sets Bolin down on the ground, keeping his grip firm on his brother's sides. "Bolin?" His brother's tantrum subsides, his form slackening, and he buries his face in Mako's chest. One arm resting around his brother's shoulders, the firebender draws Bolin close and strokes his hair softly. "It's okay. We'll get cake, just like the kind you wanted for your birthday."

His brother sniffles. "Sorry, Mako. I just . . . I wanted cake."

"It's okay, Bo. It's okay."

He doesn't care if the woman is judging them. As far as he's concerned, she's not even here, about as important at the furniture or the food. It's him and Bolin. And it's okay. And it will all be okay.

The woman lifts the ladle from the ocean kumquats again, a few drops splashing noisily on the floor. "Hungry boys, you can't have _cake_, but look at the rest I made! Eel pigeon? Tart?"

Bolin's grin snaps back in place. "Tart? Tart? What kind of tart? Where?"

"Here you go, silly boy." Opening a drawer, she rummages around in it, her thick hands pulling out a golden-brown tart, steam still rising from the surface. "Egg custard tart, that is. Old _Air Nomad_ recipe."

As Bolin leaps onto the food, recklessly poking a hole in the crust with a finger, letting out a shout when it undoubtedly burns him. Alerted by the crackle of crust, Mako gently takes his brother's hand. "Are you okay, Bo?"

Bolin shakes his head. "I wish Mommy could kiss the boo-boo," he confesses, biting his lower lip, the child's speech reminding both of them of their age. He turns his brother's hand over, inspecting the burn: Smooth skin, the only sign of a wound a reddened circle.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Mako kisses the injury. "You'll be fine."

"Thanks, Mako." Bolin hugs him again.

The heat in the egg custard tart seems to call to the firebender, and he looks at it, unsure what to do. The woman speaks up: "You're a firebender, aren't you? Ain't you ever used your bending for some cooling?"

"Cooling?" he echoes, his confusion escalating. "What do you mean?"

"You poor darling." The woman clucks. "You don't know a thing about your bending, do you?"

Bolin interjects: "He knows lots. He kept us warm _all_ winter and cooked fish and firebendeded at this guy who was going to steal my bag, but I didn't want him to steal my bag because it was _my bag_, and this one time—"

"Firebent, dear." She chortles, resting her hands on her hips. "When did you find out 'bout your bending, sweetie?"

Mako frowns. "I don't know. I think it was when Bolin and I . . ." He swallows. "Never mind."

The woman nods her head knowingly and leans down to taste the stew. Nodding a second time and grumbling about something that sounds like _see prunes_, she slaps the ladle down and removes the pot from the fire. "Don't worry, dear. Never ask if you don't want the answer. Anywho, I should introduce you to my daughter. She's a sweet, she is, and teaching you 'bout firebending she can quicker than two shakes of a koala lamb's tail, I tell you."

Mako tilts his head to one side. "Why are you helping me?"

"I help everyone." She shrugs and extinguishes the fire. "It's what I was put on this earth for."


	34. Heat

A/N: Benders need not be colour-coded by tint of eye.

Miza is around ten years of age and of medium height, but malnutrition in the street has taken a small toll on Mako's height, at least temporarily.

A certain green-eyed friend of Zolt's may return. If the streets have not found him first.

* * *

Mako feels as though a sparrowkeet has settled into his chest and begun to sing, its tiny chest puffing out with pride and hope, its feathers the colour of his brother's eyes, and the song promises to never, ever end.

He is standing next to the tart, sensing the heat within it, cooling around the rim of the hole Bolin poked through earlier, the centre roiling with its hotness. Lifting his arms, he makes a grasping motion as if grabbing the heat within the tart and steadily balls his hands into fists, curling in his fingers as though removing the temperature.

It doesn't work.

Sighing, he leans back against the counter, content to watch Bolin eat. His brother nibbles impatiently on the crust as they both wait for the middle to cool. When it does, they dive into it, jerking out handfuls of egg custard filling and bringing it swiftly to their lips. The sweetness overwhelms him, the sugar drying out his tongue and mouth, but Mako swallows, and it settles heavily in his stomach, a foreign feeling of fullness astounding him.

The woman chortles. "Ain't never had egg custard, sweeties? You two sit yourselves right down. I'll call over my daughter. _Miza!_" Her tone is suddenly loud, causing Mako to touch his hand to his ear. "Miza, come here!"

Bolin looks up from the egg custard, slurping out the rest of the sugary insides. "Miza? That's a pretty name."

"A pretty name for a beautiful girl," the woman agrees.

Footsteps swell in the hall, pausing only just beyond the door. Curiously Mako stares at the entrance, a drop of sweat beading his brow as the door slides open excruciatingly slowly, revealing, at last, a girl his mind names Miza. Eyes the colour of the sea. Blue. Not amber, as he thought a firebender would have, nor even brown. But blue, light in the centres, fading to a deep indigo towards the edge, vibrant with streaks of glittering sapphire-silver. It's as though she's speaking through her eyes: _I'm happy to meet you, I'm happy to see you, I'm happy if you're happy. _It takes him a moment to tear his gaze from them, the vibrant shades and tints seemingly burned forever in his vision. Mako glances up and down, memorising her to be able to recognise her later: Pale skin a shade lighter than his own, volumes of jet black hair curling tantalisingly over her shoulders and reaching about halfway to her waist, the outfit she wears a strange mix-match of tight-fitting scarlet city clothes and grey-brown rags worn by the rest. A thief, he thinks, noticing the way his heartbeat has oddly quickened, the room becoming heated and stuffy without him realising. His scarf is constrictive, wrapped about his throat in a way that causes the back of his neck to sweat. Pulling at it with a finger, he loosens the scarf, allowing a breath of fresh air to cool his skin.

Miza smiles. The woman gestures at the brothers in turn. "This is Bolin, a hungry little dear ain't he?" She makes a soft cooing noise. "And that is Mako, a firebender." The woman looks pointedly at him, and Mako is confused until he sees Miza clasp her right hand in her left and bow. Cautiously, feeling his fingers slide over his knuckles, he bows to her, his body unused to the motion. "Turtle dove, this sweetie here ain't never learned to firebend before." The girl brings her hand to her mouth in shock. "Would you mind doing a bit of Miza magic, turtle dove?" Beaming, Miza shakes her head vigorously. Across the kitchen before Mako can blink, she appears suddenly next to him, towering a head over him in height.

"H-hello," he stutters. Miza expertly takes his wrists in her grip and drags him towards her, dipping her hair until her hair curls over his shoulders as well. "You're going to teach me to firebend?" She nods, the hair tickling his nose.

Arms fly around him, Bolin squeezing both of them. "New friend!" he declares. "What's your name? Miza? I like that name." The earthbender cocks his head to one side. "Can you talk? I haven't heard you talk. Can you say my name? Bolin?" Her eyes twinkling, Miza tilts her head, imitating Bolin. He laughs. "I like you!"

"She's mute, dears," the woman explains, lifting a sack of rice from the floor and starting to measure out cups of it. "Now, Mako, sweetie, go with her. You need to learn your firebending, don't you dear?" She chuckles at Bolin's crestfallen expression. "And you, hungry boy, take another tart. Be smart, boy, it's hot." He grins, thanking her over and over, the tart fitting nicely into his grip, its weight causing him to jerk down for a second before being able to raise himself back up.

Her long, gentle fingers tugging on his wrist, Miza leads Mako out of the kitchen, the pads of his feet warm against the cool of the floor, and into the darkness of the hallway. "I'm coming too!" Bolin scampers behind them, juggling the hot tart from hand to hand. They pass an open doorway, the air from outside oddly cold for early autumn, but Mako welcomes the change from the heat within.

Another doorway, and soft moans greet them, accompanied by a noisy slap and the sound of glass breaking. Mako senses his brother turning about, curious of the noise, but the firebender takes his hand. "No, Bo. Follow me. Come on."

Bolin pouts. "But what's going on over there?"

"Bad things." He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. "It doesn't matter, as long as you and I are safe."

The two continue down the hallway, now three, Miza showing them the way. But even as she walks in front of them, Mako knows that it is really two and one. She has her own life. Her mother, her bending, her life.

He has Bolin.

He has all he needs.


	35. Learn

A/N: In the sea of fire, blue water can quench the flames.

Blue eyes. Amber eyes. Green eyes. And more green eyes, watching from the shadows, smiling craftily, delighted in the display of quiet power. For ice can be deadlier than fire, and Zolt must know.

_Note_: The heat of heatbending is supposed to be channelled into the surrounding atmosphere, not one's self.

* * *

The training courtyard is dimly lit, the stench of gasoline from passing satomobile lurking under the otherwise fresh wind, the horns of the moon curving upwards as though the silvery crescent were smiling down upon them, the three shadows flitting along the end of the courtyard. A current of electricity races through him; Mako is shocked to see a hint of beauty in the midst of triad territory: Other than the ghastly cement strip around the rim of the courtyard, the centre is inlaid with cobblestones, brown, white, yellow, black, grey, smoothed of ragged edges as if taken from a river or the shore of an island, the pattern spiralling through and ending around the base of a single ancient tree growing from the middle of the rock, its gnarled roots pushing through the ground, cobblestones falling from them, the trunk battered and weary, the branches sagging, the scarce leaves drooping and fluttering downwards to land softly on the stone, the tree weeping.

But for what?

Miza snaps her fingers, grabbing his attention, and she takes Mako down towards the tree itself. With precise movements, she takes the still-warm egg custard tart from Bolin's grip—the earthbender bites down on empty air, then looks up, his mouth open in an _O_. Keeping the tart poised on her arm, Miza folds herself into a sitting position, her heels somehow pressed against her opposite hips, her knees pointing outwards towards him, her hands clasped together in her lap, the posture so natural that Mako cannot help but try to imitate it. He studies her, seeing how she has linked one leg with the other, and tries to do the same, sliding his right foot along his left leg, barely able to make it reach halfway down his thigh, soreness welling in the back of his foot, his knee, and his hip from the stretching. Grasping his leg in his hands, he pulls it down the rest of the way to the crook of his hip, the muscles of his face twitching from the effort to keep it there. When he removes his hands, the palm a centimetre away from his skin, his foot slips off of his thigh again, his pose unravelling. Frustrated, he resorts to crossing his legs normally, his ankles brushing against the rock. It doesn't have to be rough, he realises, to rub his skin. Even smooth stone has hurt after a while.

Miza smiles, her shoulders shaking with a silent giggle, and she balances the egg custard tart on her lower legs, cradling the pastry. A faint trail of steam continues to rise from the surface, promises of food and warmth and comfort like whispers in the night. The girl splays her fingers, as though opening a fan, and places them onto the crust of the tart, the tips indenting the surface. Mako watches her closely, aware that she is about to show him something. What, he doesn't know. But . . . _something_.

She lifts her hand from the surface, the steam cloaking itself about her fingers, a glove of mist. Mako leans forward, adjusting his feet, his elbows propped up against his knees as he sees, in utter awe, what Miza is doing: Drawing her hand further and further away, she wills the steam to follow. No, not the steam. The _heat_, leaking from the tart, rising through the cool, crisp autumn sky, the night for once not a harbinger of fear and terror but of a time when the world sleeps soundly, the other noises muted, false echoes, an otherworldly melody descending from the stars spangled across the inky black sea, broken up by islands of light.

He understands why she is mute.

The silence is fragile, so fragile, like a baby bird, a mockingjay with downy feathers and wetness glistening, fragments of pearly white eggshell still caught on moist down.

Sound would break it, the baby bird thrown from its nest, wet feathers sticky, peeling back in the wind, the poor living spirit never knowing what the roar in its ears is until the end.

He glances at Bolin, his own baby bird, and knows that if one had to be pushed from the nest, he would be the one to jump.

Miza gently lowers her hand back down to the tart, the steam trailing, and the crust glows with the heat invading its surface. Less than before, some heat given up to the universe. But heat nonetheless.

Mako feels himself trembling, though he doesn't know why.

Her blue eyes glittering with the same dark light as the stars, Miza pushes the egg custard tart towards him, their hands touching for an instant as he accepts the trial. His lungs fill with the steam; he senses the heat melting, steadily, into him, or himself melting, steadily, into the heat, or both at once, for all he is is heat as well. He concentrates on the heat within himself and the heat within the tart, envisioning the pastry as a golden circle of fire that he can bend like any other. Much as Miza did previously, Mako opens his fingers wide, engulfing them in the flame of the circle, willing the fire to his hand, quivering on the surface of perfection.

The heat flows softly to him, traveling from his fingertips through his hand, up his arm, warming him up, cascading down his shoulders and sending an ember down his spine, spreading across his lower torso, down into his legs, heating even his toes. The scarf warms, too, as if it were part of him, the fabric red as flame.

His fingers curl into his palm, his hand slipping from the golden circle and landing on the smooth stone. A wind rustles the leaves in the weeping tree, the same wind that cools down his body, stealing away the heat.

"Mako?" Something pokes him in the arm. Bolin. "My tart's cold."

Mako opens his eyes and looks at Miza, her smile gentle. "I'll heat it."


	36. Sing

A/N: Some say the world will end in fire.

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire,

I hold with those who favour fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

to say that for destruction ice

is also great

and would suffice.

* * *

Even in the midst of the coldest winter, the cardinal robin feathered in flame sings, the notes echoing across fields of frost, fire and ice mingling into a melody for the mind and spirit.

And so, it is, in Miza, the fire in her hand and the ice in her eyes, her song not for the ears but for the heart, a heart that quickens its beat every time she draws near, her fingers whispering with a gossamer touch across Mako's arms when she improves his stance, her breath warm on his skin when she schools him in combat of close-range, her smile brightening his entire world after a day of running numbers, avoiding the worst parts of town, the images of the starving children and the indifferent adults and the blood seemingly soaking the street seared forever in his vision—until he sees her.

Her, and Bolin, his two comforts, two candles in the darkness, two embers, one in either palm, allowing him to continue through his days.

Late nights in the courtyard spent training under the weeping tree, the chill in the air cut through with the heat of their bending. Early mornings groggily awakening to Bolin's head against his chest, his brother curled up in his lap. Breakfasts in the kitchen, mere metres away from the chocolate cake that seems to be prepared for the leader of the Triple Threats every day, Miza's mother showering them in presents.

Days. Bolin waiting under Miza's wing, the number runs easiest if Mako needs not worry for his brother's safety. He can't trust anyone—he knows that—but for some reason he has faith in Miza.

Miza will never let Bolin be hurt.

Miza will never let him fall.

Miza will never let him go.

And then he returns, the lottery numbers picked at random, though no one ever seems to win. It doesn't matter to him either way: He is only there to keep himself and Bolin alive. No one else has to win at the game of life. But he can't lose.

He _can't_.

If he is late, or misbehaves, or does something the triad does not like, Jira merely touches the whip at her side, and he never does so again, the scars across his back healed, the phantom pain still reminding him of the copper on his tongue and what he did to stop Bolin from being hurt.

Miza's language is one of the quiet, of movement, of the minute shifts in her position and face, of the subtle changes that pass her in body in waves, of learning to read what is hidden instead of gauging only by the outside. Fire punches and kicks. Thin, light curves, taken from the annals of waterbending studies and shown to firebending. A lightness of the step, then a sudden pushing down at the moment of strike. Wings soaring through the air to draw speed from the wind, then roots anchoring to the ground to draw strength from the earth. A style to which Bolin adapts in a flash, practising his earthbending no longer in times when _survival_ is needed but now, naturally, the pebbles trembling and rising up, rocks following, stones, the earth bending to his will.

The black screw he no longer has, exchanged along with money from the woman with the pink scarf for Mako's healing, but his hopes of metalbending remain. Someday, he whispers to Mako in the quiet of the night, someday he'll be able to bend the metal as he does the earth, rejoicing in the simple joy of being able to lift his fingers and something listen to him, uplift him, hold him.

"It's like you, big bro," Bolin murmurs, snuggling more deeply into his brother's chest, his hands tucked under him, the spiked tips at the back of his hair brushing Mako's chin gently. "I love you."

"Love you back, Bo." Mako closes his eyes and hides his tears in Bolin's hair, the salty droplets streaking his cheeks with a silvery glimmer. He remembers Daddy singing to him when he couldn't sleep, remembers Mommy rocking him, and he wonders if Bolin remembers.

He inhales, his lungs filling with air, a song lifting up from within him, but the notes die at his lips, his fear of being unable to sing stopping him from trying.

And then, time to train once more than Miza.

But the greatest gift she teaches him isn't firebending at all.

It is the gift of silence.

Of hush.

Of leaning back and listening to the quiet until it begins to sing, until it reveals the secrets of the universe, until it teaches him of the white lotus petals on the wind.

This gift is the one he treasures, the one that makes his life amid the coming winter bearable, the one that tells him why Miza is mute.

Singing in the night. Fire and ice, light and dark, life and death. The line between them blurred, slipping into grey.

He can see her silhouette in the doorway, the black against the white, and he knows that she is listening.

Knows that _they_ are listening, both of them, though he cannot see them in the shadows. He can feel their presence, _his_ scarf around his neck, _her_ arms around him.

Once upon a life, _he_ would the one singing, and _she_ would be the one listening, and between them he would be.

But in this lifetime, he is the one singing, and she is the one listening, and between Bolin is.

And he sings.

Softly at first.

Bolin's breathing slows, stills, silences, his emerald eyes brimming with tears and fears and hopes and dreams and love.

_They_ aren't gone.

Not even if the cake is somewhere far away.

_They_ are here.

Mako sings on.

Even in the midst of the coldest winter, the cardinal robin feathered in flame sings, the notes echoing across fields of frost, fire and ice mingling into a melody for the mind and spirit.


	37. Stakes

A/N: Green. The colour of life. Of greed. Of envy.

When half is opposed, naught can heard. When all are opposed, all can be heard. But for the decision to not listen either way.

_Note_: For those who don't remember, Wulin purposefully mislead Mako into believing he knew where Bolin was, kidnapped Bolin, and forced Mako to join the Triple Threat Triad because Wulin, with his jade eye, could tell that Mako was a prodigious firebender. Zolt extracted a blood promise out of Mako to listen to everything the triad leader says. And now it will come to a head.

* * *

Miza never speaks a word, yet Mako understands perfectly. With the weeping tree above them, hints of winter drifting in a sparse snow-shower from the skies, he adjusts his stance and curves his arms upwards, feeling the heat from his inhalation travel up his arm, blazing through his muscles, and concentrate in his palm, the red-orange tongues flickering from his fingertips, his firebending by now tightly controlled. No more random flames or infernos: He knows what he wants to do, and his bending will take him there, if he can let it. A metre or two away, Bolin is practising his earthbending as well, his feet light. "I'm an airbender!" he announces, laughing.

Mako smiles to himself but also says nothing, preferring to listen to the silence.

And then Bolin's laugh changes slightly. "Hey, hello! Who are you?"

The firebender spins around, his previously slow heartbeat abruptly quickening, his fear of being discovered here in his joy—in his short, small little joy—unbearably great, threatening to consume him whole, his pupils swallowing his amber irises in their sable darkness.

The young man who steps from the shadows, however, is familiar. Green eyes. Black hair. "Wulin!" Mako cries out, remembering how he helped the firebender find Bolin when all seemed lost, the help as needed as Hai's was the two times she rescued the brothers. "I haven't seen you since you saved my brother's life." He gestures for Bolin to say something to Wulin, but the earthbender has run behind Mako's back and is hiding there, trembling. "Bo? What's wrong?"

Wulin dips his head towards Miza, who has an uncharacteristic frown on her face, the warm and glowing smile vanished, her blue eyes the colour of water frozen to hard ice. Bolin's whisper is quiet yet urgent, his eyes moist. "He said he would take me to you but he knocked me and he _hurt me bad_." He is shaking like a leaf in the wind; Mako's heart has dropped somewhere below his knees.

"Bo?" The firebender kneels down on one knee next to his brother, a hand on his shoulder, gazing into Bolin's eyes, brimming on the verge of tears. "He's not going to hurt us. Trust me. If he tries, I'll protect you, and so will Miza. Okay Bo?"

Bolin sniffles and holds Mako's gaze, his terror mounting at first, but as Mako continues to hold his shoulder, channelling his strength into his little brother, Bolin relaxes. "Okay bro."

Wulin smiles and nods. "Thank you, kid. So, I wanted to talk to you about something, eh, _special_ let's say. For the triad." Miza narrows her eyes, and he raises his arms defensively. "No need to get on me. I'm here on official Triple Threat business. Kid, come here. No one's in trouble, don't worry."

Mako glances towards Miza and Bolin, neither of whom looks too keen on whatever Wulin has to say, but the firebender, inspiring a breath of cool air, follows Bolin's former saviour to the other side of the courtyard. He steps on a twig, the crack unnaturally noisy, cleaving the night, and he winces.

Wulin turns about. "So, kid, how's it been? Hope Jira's treating you well."

The healing scars on his back twinge, and he unconsciously grasps his left arm, feeling the puckered rise of skin from the deal with Zolt. "Fine." He forces the lie out of him.

"Good, good to hear that. So I've been, eh, observing you and Miza do your practise, shall we say." Wulin's teeth flash as he speaks. "You're a fantastic firebender, did you know that?" Slowly Mako nods, his uneasiness clear. "So the big boss wants to see you."

"Zolt?" His breath puffs out on the _t_, the fingers of his right hand tightening over his arm. "Why does he want to see me?"

Shrugging, Wulin nudges him in the stomach. "You've done good, kid. First eight-year-old Zolt ever saw so much potential in, I'll say."

"Nine." Almost ten. Though he isn't sure when his birthday is. In the winter is all he knows.

Wulin waves a dismissive hand. "You're young is what I know, and Zolt likes that. _You_, kid, could become the best of the best. Just look at that firebending of yours." He clucks his tongue appreciatively. "You've got a control over heatbending like none I've ever seen. You _know_ warmth, don't you? Always on the street, fighting for the barest scraps . . . you _know_ it." He snickers, though Mako isn't certain why. "Zolt wants to see you, Mr Prodigy." Mako doesn't know what to respond, but he's well aware that he has to. Wulin coughs delicately. "Not waiting for a reply, kid. It's not a choice. The question is: When do you want to see him? Tomorrow morning, or tomorrow morning?"

"Tomorrow morning," Mako replies quietly.

Wulin smiles and claps him on the shoulder. "Well then, kid, keep on your little training . . . thing. Don't let me stop you, huh?"

The firebender almost says nothing. "Thank you," he allows at last, his voice even.

"Don't sweat it, kid." Wulin gives him a jerky half-bow and withdraws, leaving Mako in the shadows, the pads of his feet cooling on the cobblestones, a leaf falling from the weeping tree and landing softly next to him. He shifts the position of his hand, pointing his index and middle fingers at the leaf, and a spark of fire arcs from the tips to the shrivelled leaf, still green at the edges, the red and yellow settling in only at the base. Silently he watches while the ember takes hold and eats the leaf, turning it brown as the flames rise, curling it in on itself until it caves into a pile of ash staining the snow a light grey.

"Mako?"

He turns to see Bolin and Miza gazing at him, identical expressions of concern and worry on their faces.

He turns back to the ashen leaf.

When the sun rises, so will the stakes.


	38. Hold

A/N: To hold a life to hold infinite power.

Remember the sailboat, remember the struggle, remember who you are.

Shadows, always coming before.

* * *

The room is bright. The desk, after half a year, is still exactly in place, the chair fixed behind it. A few furnishings have changed—or maybe Mako couldn't notice them the first time around—but now his gaze travels over the disarming vase of red and white flowers on the corner of the desk and the painting of a sailboat hung behind the chair. And something else: A framed photograph turned away from him, an object completely out of bounds for the so-called _office_ of a man like Zolt.

He stands there quietly, his hands clasped in front of him, the scarf pulled up over his mouth and nose, his steady breaths warm against his cheeks, as though he were exhaling steam. It comforts him as he waits, his skin crawling in his trepidation and mounting fear, like a family of worms has settled within his flesh.

Nail dig into his shoulder. Wulin smiles at him, the tiniest hint of fear lurking in his eyes as well. Mako squints, but the fear disappears in an instant, transforming to nothing but hard emerald. "You'll be great, kid. Do some firebending, and you'll be great."

Before he can respond, Mako senses _him_ approach. Zolt. The scar on his left arm twinges slightly, reminding him of its presence, and then the door opens with a bang, the wood trembling as it slams against the wall fiercely enough to cause Mako to wince from the noise. A wisp of smoke accompanying his entrance, Zolt glides in, his shoes barely touching the floor, a smirk quirking the corners of his mouth. Behind him walks a beautiful woman, her skin pale as the moon, her near lack of an outfit revealing more than Mako ever wanted to see, though he feels something curious steal through him at the sight of her. Zolt mutters something to her, his sneer widening, and she makes to slap him but flounces off to perch on the edge of the desk while the Triple Threat takes a seat in his chair, placing his elbows onto the wood, the glass in his right hand filled with a red liquid reminding Mako of blood.

"Well, Wu_lin_, wha'cha got for me?" His speech is quick, rapid, a constant _rattata_ of syllables.

A pressure between his shoulder blades forces Mako forward; he half-stumbles, catching himself on the desk, the edge pushing on the crease in his palm of his hands. "Mako," Wulin directs, his words layered carefully, a hidden meaning behind every one, "show him what you've got, kid."

He wants to ask how, why, what he should do, but Zolt merely swirls the liquid in the glass. "Well?"

Mako has to. The point of no return. No, not even that: The point of not being able to leave.

He recalls what Miza told him, about everything, the slightly cool air kissing his skin as he lifts his hands and prepares to bring heat. Not firebending. Heatbending.

He wonders if Zolt knows of the art.

Closing his eyes, he envisions the room in the form of heat. Himself, like fire, red and gold and orange, spilling out to the floor below him, composed of dark colours, of black, the lack of heat draining away whatever colours there were. Beyond that, up onto the desk, to the woman, to Zolt, to the painting of the sailboat on the wall, the material a different temperature than the rest of the room.

"Well? What, he's constipated?" Zolt snickers. "What's he doing?"

Mako fights to ignore the noise and sounds, focusing on the heat of the sailboat painting. No, he decides abruptly. On Zolt.

Zolt glows with the same force as Mako. Firebending. His inner heat, higher than everyone else's in the room, channelled into flame, the source of firebending not even the breath but the warmth inside his body.

Now Mako understands, and now he is lifting his arm, Daddy's song in his ear, and now he has splayed his fingers, each tip feeling the heat within Zolt's form, the red and gold and orange, and now he is closing his fist, grasping the heat.

All of the cold winter nights spent freezing in the street, the two brothers huddling together, a stray newspaper or cardboard box the sole shelter from the frigid claws. Or the warmth, even, of the other triad, of the Agni Kais, the snow always beyond the window, swirling in spirals of white, the virgin snowfall saying nothing, covering the world in muted hush, the silence lovely, dark, and deep.

But he is no longer afraid of the winter. He is no longer afraid of the cold. He is no longer afraid of the lizard crow with the missing foot.

And now he is pulling his arm back, and the heat is following, draining first from Zolt's toes and fingers, feet and hands, legs and arms and torso, leaving blue and silver and violet in place of red and gold and orange.

He feels Zolt's form shaking, shivering, writhing, his hands fluttering to his chest, pushing on the skin above his heart as though trying to make it beat, attempting to grasp the heat within him.

"Zolt?" Wulin's voice, surprisingly high-pitched. "Zolt, are you okay? Zolt, what's going on?"

"I—can't—don't—_no_—"

In the palm of his hand, in his fingers, in himself, Mako holds Zolt's life. He could take him. In his mind's eye he sees Zolt shuddering on the desk, his life unravelling before his eyes, coming undone at the seams, about to break open like a rotted fruit. Wulin bolts towards him, intent on grasping Mako's shoulders, jerking him backwards from his fear, destroying his concentration.

He has an instant to decide before—

He drops his hands, the heat returning to Zolt's body, the string tying them together broken at last, and he drops to his knees, spent and exhausted, knowing that he is about to die.

But he doesn't.

"My apprentice." Zolt smirks. "We start training tomorrow."


	39. Light

A/N: Some are impressed by near death. Others are not. The difference is key to surviving.

Blanket can be warm, suffocating, both, much like embraces, and families.

There is only so much comfort a seven-year-old can provide to one three years his elder.

* * *

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

If he does it enough times, breathing again and again and again, maybe he can forget what happened.

Holding Zolt's fingers in the palm of his hand, in his fingers, in himself . . .

He snuggles deep into the blankets and pillows, their warmth comforting him, their heat driving him away. He fears for summer, when the temperatures will be far too high to sleep under a blanket. What will protect him from his nightmares then?

The door opens, creaking, the light footsteps whispering of his brother and his friend; he buries his face in the softness of the pillow, never wanting to stir from the spot again. The thought of seeing Bolin—of _telling_ him what happened—turns his blood to ice, even more frigid than before.

For a firebender, he feels terribly cold most of the time. Perhaps that is why he was born in winter instead of summer. He's not a firebender at all but as cruel and inhuman as the never-ending chill, the frost, the creeping white that covers all and spares none, not even the seemingly immortal lizard crows mocking him from rooftops and fence-posts. Strong and weak alike.

The scarf is wrapped around his face.

If he concentrates enough, he can pretend it still has Daddy's scent.

But it doesn't.

It's gone.

Like everyone he has ever wanted or loved.

Gone.

In the doorway, Bolin looks up at Miza, the encouragement in her blue eyes giving him courage, and he hugs her gently, stepping back for a moment to gaze at his brother curled up on the bed, more broken than Bolin has ever seen him. Miza mouths a word—_go_—and he understands.

Mako needs him now.

The door casts a triangle of light from the entrance towards the bed, fading and dissipating, becoming fuzzy at the edge. Through this triangle he walks, then runs, then leaps into the fort, the shield, the protective barrier of softness, Mako's body coiled into a ball. He slips his hand between his brother's torso and the legs drawn up until the knees nearly touch the chest, curving his arm around Mako's stomach and holding him close. Always it was the other way around, Mako's arms about him, but this time Bolin must the one to embrace.

"Bro?" He can't see his brother's face, but he can feel the tears held back in those golden eyes, the only beacon of hope in the dark days on the street. "Mako, it's okay to cry. Remember what Mommy says? Mommy says it's okay to cry."

Bolin turns his brother over as carefully as he can, though Mako resists, his form curling in on itself once more. But Bolin finds the strength to pry apart his limbs and brush the tears from his cheeks with trembling fingers. For once, he is quiet, his usual jibber-jabber replaced with hush, hush, as he squeezes himself into his brother's lap.

He knows that Mako needs to be the one to speak, to fill in the silence welling up between them. He doesn't know how he knows.

But he knows.

"Mako? What happened? Was Zolt mean to you?" His voice sounds almost too childish. Bolin gazes at his brother, unable to see Mako's eyes but able to read his emotion regardless. Fear. Horror. Shame. Guilt. Hate. Emotions no one should have, especially not _Mako_, who has done nothing but be the best brother in the city. The world. No, no, in the universe!

"Nothing." Mako's tone reveals his lie. "Nothing happened. " Shifting, morphing into truth, the silence too great to allow anything else. Bolin can feel Mako's heart leap into a new beat, increasing, rushing, thumping under his cheek. He finds it calming, no matter how swiftly it pulses, because it means Mako is still there, for him. The words are coming, forced out of his throat. "I heatbent Zolt."

Heatbent Zolt? Bolin blinks slowly, trying to comprehend what he just heard. "How do you heatbend a person?" he chirps, cocking his head to one side, a curl of hair bobbing against his forehead. "Mako? Tell tell tell. I want to know."

Fingers brush against his hair, smoothing the spikes at the rear. "I don't . . . I'm not . . . I heatbend him, Bo." Mako opens his fingers, the faint light from the doorway enough for Bolin to see their silhouette. "I . . . I could have . . . I could have . . . _killed_." The _k_ catches in his throat, the rest of the word dropping away into silence, and the tears come again, trickling down his cheeks, dripping onto Bolin's head. He hugs Mako fiercely, burying his face in his brother's collarbone, sensing the warm wetness of Mako's neck where his weeping has collected.

"But you didn't!" Bolin smiles. "And that's what counts. Mommy always said that it doesn't matter what _could_'ve happened but what _happened_. Like that time you and Daddy went camping, and—"

Mako's fingers press into his head and shoulder suddenly, abruptly, his entire body tensing and tautening. "You don't understand." Bolin recoils, pulling away, at the _anger_ in Mako's voice, a fiery fury, a rage sprung out of nowhere. "_I almost k-killed him_." His brother's hand is shaking, and he attempts to catch his wrist, to hold it until the spasm subsides, but Mako lights a fire in his palm. "For a second, I think . . . I was going to do it." Mako trembles badly enough for Bolin to begin to shiver as well. He can't breathe under the blankets, under the darkness, under the shadows, and he flings the blanket off. Mako jerks his arm up to shield his face. "Bolin, I can't see. The light's in my eyes."

Bolin glances at his brother, his reflection gazing back at him from the pools of amber in his eyes.

"The light's always in your eyes."

Slowly, steadily, subtlety, his brother ceases to shake.


	40. Plan

A/N: Paddling the old knew.

Alas, dumplings are so close and yet so far.

Much can happen in two years. Thieves. Storms. Can a canoe truly survive?

The one of seven years prefers the left to right.

_Note_: In the culture of the Roaring Twenties, left-handedness was thought to be unnatural, evil, and needed to be corrected; it was assumed that everyone was right-handed. In fact, the Latin word for left is _sinistra_. How sinister.

* * *

Breakfast is silent. Miza's mother serves them a plate of eggs. "Lizard crow," she confides, a frown etched on her face, unsure why her dear Mako and Bolin look so sullen. Mako feels odd and out of place without the familiar weight of the satchel by his side, but the numbers running game is over for now. He wishes he could have it back, could take it all back, but he guesses he can't. The firebending that saved the brothers on the streets is now the reason for the break of the status quo that has kept them safe for nearly a year. His chopsticks can't quite pick the meal up, and Mako drops them out of disgust, not of the slightly runny eggs but of himself.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him, Miza looks up at him, her lips curved downwards, a lock of raven hair twisted between two fingers. Pretending not to care, Mako scoops the egg up with his right hand, wincing when it burns his palm, but he won't heatbend it. Not after what happened.

Bolin fiddles with his chopsticks absentmindedly, his hands unused to the utensils after so long without them. Mako watches him shift them back and forth from hand to hand until at last he settles on his left, the chopsticks clicking with a wet oozing noise as they grasp the end of the egg and flip it up; it lands unceremoniously on his face. Bolin tips his head back, poking his tongue out in concentration, and the egg slips into his mouth.

"Hey, Mako?"

Mako returns his gaze to the hot egg in his palm. His stomach gurgles, but each one he brings it to his lips, his throat dries, bile rising, burning. With a low sigh, he deposits it onto the plate, a pit in his stomach.

"Brother?"

He glances up, his eyebrows knit together in his worry. Bolin is grinning, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "What is it, Bolin?"

"Guess what day it is today, bro?" His brother jumps up, the plate of eggs flying from his lap, and he catches it with his earthbending, spinning it on his finger. "Guess guess!"

Tearing his thoughts away from the apprenticeship with Zolt looming over—he remembers the same the same feeling in another life, when he accidentally knocked over Daddy's telescope, a fracture running through the lens, and he cowered in his room under a blanket, praying that Daddy wouldn't notice when he came down, the same terrible pit in his stomach—Mako gazes at his brother, his mind rolling through his options. "I don't know, Bo."

Bolin waves at Miza's mother, who smiles and pulls out a tray of hot . . . dumplings? Mako frowns in confusion, his eyebrows knitting even more tightly together. His eyes bright with mirth and glee, his wide smile revealing his teeth—one of them, Mako notes, is loose, and he's surprised it hasn't fallen out already—Bolin grasps the tray and drops it in front of his older brother.

The smell is shockingly familiar, a fragrance from another life, another past, another Mako, seated by a kitchen table, inhaling the scent of his favourite meal in the world: Dumplings. The dumplings, crisped to a light brown instead of the usual greyish white, the inside a fantastic blend of meat and vegetable and spice and everything he could ever imagine wanting, his mouth watering from the very memory.

Not, not a memory.

There they are, in front of him, crisped to the same light brown. Mommy's voice is in his ear, her words soft, a hand lifting his chin. "_I love you, Mako. No matter what else happens, remember that._"

And there they are, the same dumplings, the same smell, the same almost everything.

Almost everything.

"Since Mommy and Daddy are getting cake," Bolin is saying, "I thought I could get you the best birthday present ever!"

_Cake_.

The word makes Mako snap his head up, hyperventilating, his breaths suddenly quick and shallow and urgent.

Fire. Falling. Screaming. His parents. Grabbing. Heat. Heart. Yelling. Begging. Monster. Red. Scarf. Running. Confused. Scared. Lost.

Dumplings.

Bo.

"What did you say?" Mako's voice sounds choked off, silenced, the quiet nearly unbearable. "_What did you say?_"

Touch on his knee. He twists towards the feeling, the room spinning through his vision, and locks gazes with the ocean. Blue.

Miza.

"Mako?" Bolin sniffs. "Mako, happy birthday. You're ten now. A whole three years older than me!" He pauses and glances at his hands, counting off on his fingers. "Yup, three."

The ocean.

The bay.

Blue.

He remembers standing on the dock next to Daddy's canoe, looking out over the bay towards Air Temple Island, untying the string as Daddy pushed off through the choppy waters, the broad oars easily moving him onwards and onwards. Mako waved at him as he left, rowing out to Memorial Island, the statue of Avatar Aang keeping watch over the city. As Daddy disappeared from view, Mako sat down next to the post, wondering why he hadn't been brave enough to come with him.

The canoe.

The canoe, still tied to the dock, presumably bobbing safely on the water.

Mako's eyes widen, his rapid breath stopping within seconds, and suddenly he knows what he has to do.

"Mako?"

He shakes his head to clear it and comes to, the blue of Miza's eyes replaced with the grey-black of a charred tray. Gasping, he drops it; it clatters to the floor, ash drifting off of it, and stares at his hands, the heat of recent fire still on them.

Bolin's face is contorted, his eyes wet, on the verge of tears. "You didn't like it!" A trail of snot dribbles down.

Mako clasps his hand. "No, Bo. I loved it. I'm sorry for burning them. Thank you."

His brother's mouth twitches into a grin. "R-really?"

"I love you, little bro."

Bolin's smile warms him as nothing else. "Love you back, big bro."

* * *

End of Part II.


	41. Ten

A/N: _My apologies to everyone awaiting the next chapter of Book Two: Blood. I've run into several issues with the story, upon which I will elaborate if you choose to message me privately. I plan to continue it, and my continuation of this story has no bearing on that one._

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, or favourited this story. It means more to me than you could know._

_Previously on Scarf: Mako is terrified of the idea of becoming Zolt's apprentice. Even though he and Bolin have been, at last, eating well with the triad, Mako equates becoming Zolt's apprentice with . . . a descent into things he doesn't want. Tonight, he has planned the brothers' escape to the harbour in hopes of finding their father's old canoe, and the last pieces of the plan are coming together._

Coincidences, turning the memories of the past into the epiphanies of the present.

Is it better to have a half meal in freedom or a full meal in bondage?

Our parents are not angels or martyrs or perfect beings of any sort; they, too, leave their mark neither in white nor black but in ambiguous grey.

* * *

Snow.

Cold on his skin, the tiny hairs like down on his arms and legs lifting, gooseflesh covering him softly as a blanket.

When the snowflake alights delicately on the tip of his tongue, spreading more of the same unbidden cold through the heat of his body, he decides that he is ten years old.

By the time he has crossed the courtyard, the cobblestones wet and sticky with snow melting the moment it touches the ground, he no longer feels like a child of nine.

Ten. A solid number. Solid as the ground beneath his feet.

Ten.

A fifth of his life spent waiting for the cake that will never show.

The bag slung around his shoulders is uncomfortably heavy, the strap digging into the flesh of his chest and curving diagonally to rest against his left side, reminding him of the ribs barely hidden by the thinnest layer of fat garnered from these months of eating well with the triad. He knows that he is betraying the trust of Miza's mother, first by stealing her bag from the quarters he knows all too well from his time spent with Miza, and now by taking the food from the kitchen.

Lifted from the kind woman's bedside, the key presses into the creases of his palm, the metal ice in his grip. More snowflakes alight, in his hair, on his eyelashes, as if whispering to him that he is being watched, that his action will not go unseen.

The right leg of his pants has curled inwards on itself, exposing his ankle to the frigid weather. He shivers, though he doesn't quite know if it's from the cold or from the fact that he is about to break into the kitchen of the Triple Threat Triad. One of the kitchens at least. He's never been entirely certain how or why it works, but he doesn't _need_ to. It exists.

And that's all he needs to know.

His hands are shaking, the key slipping out of them as dust through his fingers, and he glances left and right. Out of fear that someone will see. Out of a wild desperate hope that someone _will_ see and somehow save him, and Bolin.

But there's nothing but the silence and the darkness and the shadows. The same as there has ever been.

His gaze slowly returns to rest on the lock upon the door, a dull black with faded golden highlights around the outline. Somehow the lock takes in the key like a hungry mouth, swallowing it whole; for a moment, the key doesn't turn, and his blood is ice.

Then it does.

With his weight he pushes the door open, and the warm air whispers over him, a blessing, a promise. He winces at how loud his footsteps are on the floor of the kitchen.

His throat vibrates with words threatening to pour out into the stillness, but he quiets them, leaves them in the bottom of his mouth. They taste of copper. Raising his arm slightly, he cups the fingers of his right hand.

A flicker of fire dances gracefully in the centre of his palm.

Empty trays glitter grey and silver, strewn across a countertop. White jetted with black forms a washbasin, a serpent's head of a faucet watching menacingly over its domain. Cabinet handles call to him, spiralling patterns of knots in the treated wood a code to reveal the food hidden inside.

His fingers soar to the scarf around his neck, the fabric unusually warm even in the chill of the winter's night, drawing it over his mouth and nose until the words fighting to be spoken are free.

He breathes:

"I'm sorry, Miza."

The bag drops to the floor. Hooking his thumb and forefinger over the metal zipper, he opens it, his mouth a thin line. More quickly than any motion he has ever achieved before, cabinets are flung open, boxes of food—_food_—tipped over and spilled into the bag, anything that could stave off the Hunger waiting for them again on the street. He imagines it smirking, a cruel wolfbat from a nightmare with pointed fangs and scaly wings, prowling the night. For the briefest time he escaped it. But it _knew_ he would return at some point or another to its sharp claws and deadly bite.

He doesn't care if the Hunger creeps into him and settles into his bones. It already has. And once it has nestled so deeply, it will never leave.

But Bolin . . .

He can't stand the thought of his brother going hungry again.

The bag fills rapidly, and at last he is left poking in a few wrapped strips of dried meat. One last sweep of the kitchen: Empty cabinets, tell-tale rows of boxes missing amid them, the cans no longer in the same organised order that they were. He bites his lower lip. "They'll know." The destruction he has wrought, the disorder, all to save himself and his little brother.

"Bolin, I'm coming." He pictures his brother now, slumbering peacefully in their room, unaware of what is about to occur. Keeping that image affixed in his mind, he steals for the door, his footsteps muffled on the floor tiles. It opens, a thin slit of light coming through it, but no cold air, the room beyond instead an apartment of some kind, a couch and a nightstand materialising in front of him, his eyes adjusting to the dark. His breath hitches; he makes to close the door quietly as possible, but then something shimmers in the corner of his vision.

On the nightstand.

A picture frame.

Red, though streaks of the wood underneath show through.

A photograph.

Black and white.

A man, a smile, a sepia scarf knotted at his throat.

Yet Mako knows the scarf was red.

His lips form the sound, his tongue touching the roof of his mouth, but he doesn't believe it until he hears it, whispered into that same scarf.

"_Dad_."


	42. Frame

A/N: Feedback is always appreciated, whether good or bad. It's nice to know how the story is progressing.

Connections weave in and out of past and present.

Unrequited love can be the best and yet the worst at once, for grief and love are one and the same.

* * *

The shadows part, a half-opened window on the opposite side of the apartment letting through a thin current of light, an unrolled carpet on which particles of dust dance and spin. Beyond the window, the courtyard tree grows strong, roots still pushing up the cobblestones.

Outside, the world is frozen.

And inside, so is he.

His breath is caught somewhere at the base of his throat, his tongue an immotile lump in his mouth. The blood running through his veins alternates hot and cold, fire and ice, desire and fear.

"Dad," Mako says again, but this time his voice rises on the final note. A question. The floorboards creak quietly when he walks across them, his gaze riveted on the photograph, on Dad's face, on the one person he thought he would never see again. As he nears it, he stoops slightly, surprised at the height he didn't know he had. The muscles in his right arm twinge; gently he grasps the frame between his thumb and index finger, his other fingers slowly coming to rest on the painted wood as though not quite believing.

The man in the photograph smiles widely at him, his black hair somewhat spiked at the front, his jawline sharp. Like an older version of Mako, but different in ways he can't name. The image he memorises, branding it into his mind, terrified of the fact that for a moment he couldn't remember what Dad looked like. He's dressed in some sort of uniform, one that Mako has never seen him. With his arm around a beautiful young woman. But not Mom. Her face is too angular, the hair too dark, make-up plastered on her face in ways Mom never does. "Never did," he reminds himself softly, wondering at the woman in the photograph, a faint familiarity striking him. But—

"So you found out."

His sudden inhalation burns his lungs. Swivelling about on his heel, Mako stares, his grip tightening on the picture frame, ready to protect it with his life if he has to.

Folding her arms across her chest, her tight shirt revealing the scars across her stomach, Jira smirks, but he notices the corners of her mouth twitching downwards. "So now. You. Know." Each word is punctuated by a step towards him. "Now give me the photo back."

No. He hasn't seen Dad in so long, and now he _finally_ has Dad's photograph in his grasp, has it, has it, _has it_, and he's not going to lose it. No. He _can't_.

"It's Dad." The frame presses into his chest, the sharp corner sinking in to leave a mark on the skin above his heart. "It's my _dad_." Mako glances up at her, tears prickling somewhere behind his eyes, his heartbeat slowed to almost nothing. Emotions flicker across her face: Anger, disbelief, concern, longing, grief, back to concern. Emotions he has never imagined Jira as having in her entire life. "Please, Jira. It's the only thing I have of him. This and . . . my scarf." Wetness streaks down his cheeks now. He hates himself, hates himself for the weakness, for breaking down in front of the woman who whipped him and caused him to cry out and made him suffer like nothing else.

She throws her head back and laughs, a sound dry and empty as the shell of a rotten fruit. "You think you're the only person who wants something of him?" Somewhere behind the terror of having to let go of Dad all over again, Mako distantly hears the change in her voice, the street accent slipping. "You don't even know who your father was, do you?"

Fear gives way, just barely, to confusion and to the curiosity. He lowers his arms, his grip still tight enough on the frame to hurt his fingers. "Who he was?" the firebender echoes, blinking in confusion.

Jira's mouth quirks, her eyes dulling; she looks away, for once her menacing power over him drained down to her soles. "He was an officer in the United Forces, kid." Her voice softens into that tone grown-ups so often take to talk about the past. Mom and her stories, whispered in the stillness of the night, the timbre speaking what mere words couldn't. Her love. "But his heart wasn't in it. He never wanted to fight, more to travel the world, and the Forces were the only way he could." Her expression hardens, something sharp and cruel glittering in the amber-brown. "And then he met your dear mother, such a lovely young girl." She glares at Mako now, her lips forming silent curses directed at him. "Oh, but she wanted to travel too, and he loved to spin a tale of his journeys across the globe, and la-di-da wasn't she simply the _viper cat's pajamas_? So he went and deserted the Forces." Jira pauses. He can sense her hesitation. "Went and deserted _me_. Guess it doesn't matter, 'cause it's not like he ever gave two—" Jira swallows, closing her eyes for a moment. For a fleeting moment, Mako sees a haunting echo of a younger woman, of a beautiful woman, with an angular and dark hair.

The woman in the photograph.

Suddenly the frame, far from being something warm and sturdy and solid, a memory that will never, ever leave him, has become something full of ashes and regret and questions of what could have been.

And then her peaceful face is ruined by a grimace. "Now _give_ me the _photo_."

This time, Mako does. "H-how do you know him?"

Returning the photograph to the nightstand without looking at it, Jira laughs again, bitter and jaded and fraught with ice. "Ya cert'nly didden get 'is brains, did ya now?" She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. I'll fix the kitchen. You get the Spirit World out of here, a'ight kid?"

He blinks, his heart squeezing, his voice betraying his incredulity. "You're _helping_ me?"

A half-moon smile curved her lips.

"He would've wanted me to."


	43. Rock

A/N: As stated previously, reviews are appreciated.

The escape wraps up, not in the present but the future, and then the struggle to survive can begin anew.

For, like the cycle of the seasons, nothing ever truly leaves.

* * *

Mommy is laughing.

Her entire face has lit up with happiness, her eyes bright as miniature suns tinted green, the same colours reflected in his. She tilts her head to one side as he has so often done himself, and he catches a faint smell of the fire lilies she was just planting in the yard, the earth fresh under her fingernails. Fire lilies and earth and baked sweets, a medley of scents, a melody of scents, all of the thing he associates with Mommy.

He raises his arms like he did when he was little, and she doesn't stop laughing as she folds her arms around him and lifts him up to her chest, embracing him tightly. "Oh, Bo," she whispers into his ear; he buries his face in her shoulder, inhaling the scent as much as he can, desperate to keep whatever relic he can that Mommy's here, that Mommy's _here_. Gently she strokes his hair with her right hand, her left supporting his body. "I love you so much. Never, ever forget that. I love you, and I promise I'll protect you."

"I love you too." His hands grasp for her hair, curling the dark brown locks between his fingers. He has never felt so safe, so warm, so . . . so . . . _loved_. "When are you coming home, Mommy? I want c-cake. I'm hungry, Mommy." Mommy stiffens, her grip becoming firm, almost painful. He inhales and buries his face further into her shoulder. "Mommy?"

"Bo, wake up."

Her tone is changing, deepening, the laughter fading away, and he cries out from fear, flinging his arms around Mommy, squeezing her, his blood a dull roar in his ears from the terror of never seeing her again. "_Mommy_," he says over and over again. "_Mommy_."

"It's okay, bro. I'm here."

"_Mommy. Mommy. Mama. Mako. Mako._" He closes his eyes and wishes he could somehow dissolve into his brother's embrace, wishes that somehow nothing else in the entire world could matter, wishes more than anything that, right now, Mako would pull out a plate of cake, chocolate cake, birthday cake. "Promise me you'll never leave. M-mako?"

His brother exhales, a tongue of fire escaping his lips. "I'm here for you, brother. Just go back to sleep. It's going to be okay."

Bolin allows the words to settle on him, and then he blinks against the fabric of Mako's shirt. Slowly he becomes aware of a rocking sensation. Movement. They're going somewhere. And then, of something bulky against his brother's right side, like a case of some kind. Raising his chin, he opens his eyes and glances up curiously at the dark skies overhead, the moon a lucky silver coin eager to be slid into the slot, the lever pulled and the wheel spun, one of those games at the fairs that sometimes opened up in the centre of the city amid colourful lights and brilliant fireworks.

It takes Bolin a long and drowsy moment to realise that he's outside when he should be in.

"Where are we going?" he mumbles sleepily, the sentences not quite syncing together. "Are we running numbers again? I thought that you—"

"_Ssh_." Pressure on the back of his head: His face is pushed into Mako's shoulder to muffle his speech. "It's going to be okay, I promise. Just go back to sleep. Please, go to sleep. _Please_."

Somewhere, something is wrong, but Bolin merely closes his eyes, his hot breaths trapped in the fabric, keeping his face from the cold air. A drop of wetness slides down his neck. Snow.

"It has to be okay," Mako is saying, almost more to himself than to Bolin.

"It's okay." He lets out a quiet yawn, the rocking motion lulling him to sleep. "Mommy promised me she'd keep us safe."

His brother's muscles tighten, and he holds Bolin all the more strongly. "Then we'll be okay."

The earthbender nods, teetering on the brink between consciousness and slumber, Mako's promise faint and far-off. "Promise?"

For the longest moment there is nothing but the sound of shoes crunching through a thin layer of snow.

And then, pulling Bolin back from the edge of sleep, comes the reply, softer than a feather alighting on the stone:

"I can't." A pause, a hesitation, a quaver in the timbre that sounds off somehow in a way he can't name. "But I'll figure something out. I always do."

Bolin beams, his fingers curling around pinches of fabric, one of the shirt, the other of the scarf; a shadow whispers over him, and he slips downwards to float in the sea of sleep. Air Temple Island rises from the waves, the birdlike airbenders waiting in golden cages while he walks amongst them, staring at their feathered wings, pausing only when they begin to sing, their voices exactly the same as Mako's.

A sudden motion flicks his eyelids up, and he gasps when he awakens with a start: His brother stopped walking. As he tries to orient himself, a scent oddly familiar drifts under his conscious, and he wrinkles his nose from the smell. Salt. Like the bay.

He wonders if they're going to visit the airbenders after all.

Then he hears Mako whoop, the loudest noise he thinks he's ever heard his brother make. "It's here!" Mako is half-crying, half-screaming, and more than anything it scares him; he shuts his eyes tightly as he can, praying his brother to stop. "The canoe—right there—Dad—thank _you_—"

Bolin feels himself sliding downwards out of his brother's grip, and a yelp escapes him. Mako immediately scoops him up again, holding him flush against the firebender's chest. Something shines on his brother's cheeks, but Mako's _smiling_, a thing rare and beautiful as the rainbow after the storm. "Bro?" Bolin's heart hammers in his chest. "What's going on?"

"We're going to be okay. Better than okay." Mako laughs, a sound Bolin never thought he'd hear again. "We're going to make it, Bo."


	44. Found

A/N: A big thank you so all of my readers for pulling me through this far.

Getting cake has faded into legend, and now the acceptance - and the forgiveness - can finally begin.

For abandonment is reason enough to be forgiven.

* * *

Mako's arms shake with the effort to keep holding his little brother up in addition to the weight of the bag and the food inside of it. He feels like he's preparing for the apocalypse, for the moon to suddenly come crashing down into the earth, for the ocean to flood them all. He doesn't even know. But it doesn't matter now, not when the bay is so close. The dock extends into the dark waters, the waves lapping at the harbour as though trying to carry it away, but still it stands firm. As he does.

As Dad did.

His gaze settles onto the canoe, somehow yet tied to the dock by the bright red rope that marked it from the others. Two years, and the canoe is still here. _Still here_. As long as Mako keeps the canoe in his sight, nothing can go wrong.

"Thanks, Dad."

A member of the United Forces. A general, maybe even.

He doesn't know exactly what that means, but he knows he should be proud, and he is. _Bursting_ with it, his heart floating somewhere on the water, both because Dad was who he was—in the _United Forces_—and because Mako has a new sliver of knowledge about Dad's life. And somehow that makes Dad more real. Not just legend anymore, not just a reminder of what used to be and the food they used to have and everything else good about their lives, but a person who really existed.

Not a memory.

Or a memory of a memory.

But Dad.

He realises how long it's been since he thought about Mom and Dad as much of anything beyond symbols of everything his life was supposed to be.

"I love you, Mom." He tastes the words, his tongue not quite sure what it's doing, the words lost and rusty and bitter. "Love you, Dad. Thank you."

One step at a time, walking down to the harbour, down to the waves. There's nothing in the canoe—not after two years—but he _feels_ like there is, the same thing pounding at the moment through his heart.

And then Mako recognises it.

_Hope_.

"Come on, Bo."

His brother slides off of him and lands on his rump, springing up almost instantly. Mako rubs his upper arms, grateful for the removed load, and continues walking forward, the tapping of his feet on the wood more comforting than anything else. That, and the weight of the bag full of food, and the sound of Bolin's breathing, halfway in dreamland, halfway thrilled to be going somewhere. "Where are we going?" his brother chatters excitedly, his eyes twinkling with eagerness for the unknown.

"I told you about the canoe." And it's here, he wants to add. Because he remembered it. And he was smart enough to go find it. "I was right, bro. I always am."

He's a little shocked when Bolin suddenly hugs him from behind. "I'm lucky to have you, aren't I?" the earthbender says sleepily, rubbing his eyes. "Love you."

"Love you back." Mako listens closely to his brother's footsteps, taking his hand when they begin to sound slightly uneven. He idly muses if Bolin will ever know what it's taken to keep him warm and safe and fed. But he doesn't say anything.

It's easier this way.

He longs to glance at the boats they pass, from tiny sailboats good only for one or two to massive barges blocking out the light of the moon and the night sky swirled with multi-coloured stars above them, but he has to keep looking at the canoe.

The rope wrapped around one of the wooden pegs rising up from the harbour stops him short, the crimson like an angry slash through the darkness, a wound that won't heal. Sucking in a breath, Mako lifts a hesitant hand, considering the last person to touch the rope.

Dad.

Quietly he brings the back of his hand near it, almost to check to see if it's real or one of those mirages from the radio dramas Mom liked to listen to. But it's there. Closing his eyes, Mako grasps the rope, the texture heartbreakingly familiar under the roughened pads of his fingertips. "Get in the canoe."

"Okay." Bolin's hand slips out of his; he hears his brother half-fall, half-tumble into the canoe. "Mm, it's so _warm_."

A snowflake lands on his eyelash. Mako wipes it away, feels it melt into water, and considers untying the canoe. "Not yet." Instead his fingers return to the strap of the bag slung around his shoulders; he pries it, shrugging out of it, and tips it into the canoe, a tad surprised at the soft _thump_ rather than the noise of wood. Finished, he hooks his leg around the rim of the canoe and allows himself to drop down. A blanket. Softness in the bottom of the canoe.

His eyes snap open. Shifting the bag of food out of the way, Mako glances down: A blue blanket. And not one that looks like it's been in the weather for two years, but a fairly newish one at that.

The fact troubles him.

"Bo, get up."

His brother responds with a light snore. Despite himself Mako smiles, reaching out to ruffle Bolin's hair, the sea breeze already having mussed it up. Then he turns back. Part of him screams about the folly of falling asleep in a canoe where someone _else_ left a blanket.

But another part of him, the largest part of him, can't stand the thought of fleeing the canoe. He doesn't care if the decision is stupid or selfish or dangerous. He can't leave Dad.

Mako touches the edge of the canoe, sensing the strength in the wood, the kind of wood that can last.

Silently, he pushes on it, testing it.

It rocks.

His eyelids lower as he rocks the canoe back and forth, pretending somewhere that it's Mom.

He knows it isn't.

But maybe, just maybe, he can pretend.


	45. Hit

A/N: Winter is coming.

Ten-year-old saints are difficult to come by.

Bolin may not have physical scars, but psychological ones can be just as powerful.

* * *

Something nuzzles his chest, squirming in his lap a few seconds before settling down again. His eyelids flutter, letting in a mixture of dappled too-bright light and hints of darkness patterned over the skies, as his hand travels towards the something perched on his thighs. Hair meets his fingers, tangling itself, and Mako smiles at his brother's warmth and soft breathing; he sounds utterly at peace with the entire world, like there is nothing that could ruin his day, and the thing that Mako wants most, right now, is the ability to somehow make sure that Bolin never, ever feels differently.

Suddenly he jolts awake, sitting up in a second, his brother nearly sliding off. Shifting his weight to brace his back against the edge of the canoe, the firebender hastily pushes Bolin from his lap and looks down, but the blanket is still there, appearing a bit worse for wear, the corners crumpled. He snaps his head to stare, terrified, at the bag of food; he dives for it, ignoring Bolin's cry of surprise when his foot accidentally jabs into the earthbender's side. The zipper glints. Mako jerks it open, a trickle of sweat cool against his brow, only to sigh with relief when the food is indeed all there.

"Bro, what's going on?"

"Don't worry about it," he answers automatically, sifting through the bag to ensure . "Sit tight and I'll get you breakfast."

From the corner of his eye, Mako watches Bolin slowly blink and stretch until his back makes a satisfying crack. He glances back and forth, confusion clouding his emerald eyes, before turning back to the firebender. With a sigh, Mako pulls out a box of fire flakes, waiting for the inevitable questions. "Bro, where are we?"

"Let's play a game." Cautiously peeling back the top of the box, he inspects the inside, even though he knows beggars can't be choosers. But it's fresh, or at least as fresh as it's going to get, so he pulls out a handful of powdery flakes and eats them off of his palm. The taste instantly floods his mouth with saliva, his stomach churning eagerly from the thought of being able to eat however much he wants. Although Mako's aware he should ration himself, he can't bear to close the box. "It's called the Quiet Game. The first person to speak loses."

"Didn't you just talk?" Bolin inquires, yawning. "So you lost?"

Mako shakes his head and tilts the box forward, spilling out more of the fire flakes into his palm, his stomach growling with hunger for the first time in a while. He realises he's used to being at least somewhat full; the thought almost makes him laugh. "Here, take this. Don't eat all of it, or you'll get sick. The Quiet Game starts . . . _now_."

Bolin rolls his eyes. "Sure, Mom," he jokes, digging into the box.

The firebender doesn't even comprehend where his hand is going until he feels the sting on his palm and hears the rough crackle of fire flakes spilling. "_Never make fun of Mom or Dad again_," Mako snarls, the voice he hears not his own. The moment the last word leaves his lips, his eyes widen at the red mark on Bolin's cheek and the fear in his emerald eyes, a fear Mako has never seen directed at _him_.

He stares at his hand as if it were a monster.

"I'm sorry," he bursts out, reaching out to touch his brother's shoulder, but Bolin scrambles away from him, the earthbender's breathing becoming ragged and wet with the first signs of crying. "Bo. _Bo_, I'm sorry." But his brother is stumbling over the side of the canoe, jumping out of the firebender's reach to tumble onto the dock at the other side. Dizzyingly Mako understands Bolin means to leave, forever. But after all he's done for his brother, he can't just . . . _leave_.

His brother picks himself up, a tremor racing through him visibly enough for the firebender to suck in a breath at the thought of Bolin's pain, and then he glances back over his shoulder; Mako catches a glint of green, somehow un-dulled even though they've been through so much, the pain and the panic and the Hunger.

"I lost the Quiet Game," Bolin says softly. "I lost it, and that's why you hit me, right?"

Mako's brow furrows in his puzzlement, his heartbeat still loud and far too fast from his horror at himself. "No, I—"

"Because I'd never make fun of Mommy. Or Daddy. You know that, right Mako?" Bolin sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "_Right_?"

"Bo . . ."

The earthbender grasps the fabric of his shirt and brings it up to his face to soak up his tears. "It's okay. I'm sorry, too. You're not Mommy."

No, he's not. Because Mom would never hit a child. His throat constricts; Mako clenches his right hand, the tingling settling in his palm.

"I'm okay." Bolin hesitates. "Am I okay, Mako?"

"You're okay." Mako leans down to pick up the box, the fire flakes strewn wildly over the inside of the blanket. Two years ago, maybe he would've tossed them into the bay and settled for the ones in the box. But not today. "You're okay because I love you. And Mom and Dad love us, too." The fire flakes taste of sea salt, but they're better than nothing. He doesn't have a right to complain anyway: They're safe, they're away from the triad, they have food—

"When are they coming back?"

He grabs the box so tightly the sides collapse slightly, furrows of cardboard digging into the creases of his palm. "Come here." Mako forces himself to exhale. "Eat breakfast. We've got a lot to do today." He'll make something up, something to keep Bolin busy.

His brother nods, the canoe rocking when he climbs back inside it. "Bro?"

"What?"

"I want to play the Quiet Game."


	46. Thief

A/N: Old friend. New enemy.

_Watertown_ is an establishment of Water Tribe natives who refuse to leave their traditions or who have yet to be naturalised into the city. A little piece of the poles smack dab in the middle of Republic City, sometimes with false snow.

Mako, having gone to school for about three years, is able to read somewhat.

* * *

The instant Mako hits the street, he wishes there were a way he could somehow make sure Bolin's safely in the canoe—for once listening to instructions—but he knows the only thing he can do is get to the market, figure out what's going on, and return as quickly as possible. Beyond the harbour, the massive dome of the golden Pro-bending Arena rises high above him, curving almost into the clouds themselves, impossibly large, impossibly expensive. It could be the home of the spirits, if he believed in them.

After all this time, it's hard to believe in anything that isn't food.

By high noon, the sky is a mottled grey, the bellies of the clouds swollen like overripe fruit about to burst. The midst of winter will be soon, but he can't show how scared he is. Not here. Not on the street, where the only thing more vicious than the lizard crows are the people, the shark rats waiting in the shadows of the alleyways, all smiles until the time to strike.

He can't trust anyone anymore, not if he wants to keep his life.

Keeping his footsteps light as possible, Mako shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, grateful for the triad's semi-generosity. He forces his gaze down to the ground, stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk, the cement fracturing with feathery spider fly webs in places, the gashes racing through the land in front of him and reminding him of a map of some kind. To his right, a man dressed in rags sits in front of a sign reading, _Need yuans for martial arts lessons to avenge father_. The man smiles toothlessly at the firebender when he passes, gesturing wildly towards the empty cup by his side, but by now Mako knows enough to be aware of the cache of yuans somewhere in the man's coat or hat, the donations cup only vacant to cause more to take pity on him.

But who is going to give yuans to someone who wants martial—

A clink makes Mako glance up to see a young man putting his wallet back into his trouser pocket, sniggering at the sign. The homeless one lets out a whoop of joy. "Daddy, here I come!" he croak-sings while the donator walks away, shaking his head and laughing to himself.

Mako blinks.

Humour.

Maybe that's the key.

He'll do anything he can.

The firebender knows this place in his very bones, the crumbling foundation of the city. Dancing flames erupt from trash cans overflowing with waste that no one in the city will ever pick up, the dull orange and red casting dim light onto the ashen faces of street rats huddling together for warmth, their ribs jutting like rungs of a ladder through their worn clothing. A handful shake violently, coughing into their hands until their fists are coated in mucus or blood, the yearly flu beginning to take its toll. A lone satomobile roars through the road, the windows tinted black, the rimmed tires sending up a wave of winter slush to drench the sidewalk. Mako jerks backwards and watches the edge of the wave pass by before him, his amber eyes temporarily reflected in the sullen water. A hiss behind him prompts a bolt of fire in his palm, and the shark rat slinks back into the alley, its scaly tail flicking in annoyance at losing the meal. Bracing his hand against his chest to feel his heart hammering against his sternum, the firebender takes a moment to catch his breath.

It could have been over.

He pauses by a face-down corpse to check for shoes. Bare feet. Mako frowns and ponders momentarily if the person—he can't tell the gender—had shoes that were stolen or gnawed away by street rats or if he simply never had shoes at all. It's easier to think of the dead as _he_. A _she_ could be a mother or pregnant or anything else. A kid can survive without his dad. But without Mom?

He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to forgive her for leaving.

The buildings grow steadily less dilapidated, the greys and browns at last being replaced with the colour and the hubbub of the market. With Watertown to the north and lively settlements of refugees and newcomers to the east and west, the market is a jumble, halfway between a tent city and a wild bazaar.

With a start Mako understands why Mom and Dad must've gone to this market all of this time. Because Dad, at least, was a newcomer, too.

The merchants hawk their wares at the top of their lungs, screaming offerings of fresh ocean kumquats, crisp falcon bass, delectable hippo cow steaks wet with juices and shiny with sauce. Mako inhales the scents, his mouth watering, but he hasn't been here in years. Nervously he grasps the end of his scarf, slightly surprised when he realises that it no longer hangs low on his body as it did before.

He's getting taller. And the protection the scarf can afford is getting smaller.

He isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

So he does neither. Mako is shocked at how easy it is for the blood oranges and ash bananas to appear in his grasp, the merchants never once glancing down to see the young thief. It's not _really_ stealing, he rationalises, not when the alternative is giving his life up to the triad.

Carefully he wraps them in his scarf, tucking the parcel into his pocket, pretending to ignore the obvious bulge under his jacket. There's a great chance someone will attack him for it, but, deciding nothing can be done, Mako sets out back. But then motion at the corner of his vision alerts him, a rustle of sable feathers and beady black eyes.

A lizard crow, perched on a bench.

A lizard crow with a skin-pink _V_ scarring its chest.

A lizard crow with a missing foot.


	47. Torn

A/N: Hate, hunger . . . humanity.

A certain honorary brother has arrived.

The following chapter takes place concurrently with this one.

* * *

He stares at the lizard crow slowly preening its feathers, its dark beak brushing the insides of its wings. The bird is more ragged, more worn, and its usual murder of cronies is no longer with it. Abandoned, Mako understands, by its very family and friends.

A picture swoops through his mind: Hot lizard crow, the meat glistening with juices, the dinner filling in a way fire flakes can't ever repeat.

Easy prey.

But . . . it's a living creature. Something in his innards twists and coils at the thought of hurting it, something reaching back to the days before the streets.

Then his jaw tightens as memories of the lizard crow's _mockery_ of his failures from his first few months desperately trying to protect Bolin.

He's not an eight-year-old kid anymore. He's ten, and he can _bend_.

The lizard crow cocks its head at him, its black eyes staring blankly upwards, and the firebender hesitates. No sudden movements. He'll have to be quick to catch the bird before it can escape. And before he can change his mind.

Closing his eyes, Mako concentrates the heat of his core into the palm of his right hand, lifting his arm and expelling it with full force. A few people around him scream, the crowd scattering. Instantly the lizard crow squawks and flutters up, landing heavily on another bench nearby, its stub of a leg flailing while it attempts to balance itself. Mako throws his arms up, sensing the creature's heat, the reds and oranges of the rapidly breathing lizard crow's body standing out strikingly against the more muted tones of the languid passers-by. Catching the bird's warmth in his fingertips, he steadily takes a step backwards, wondering if this is what he wants, if this is what he needs.

No, he doesn't _need_ it.

But he wants it. He wants it more than he can tell, wants to smite the lizard crow where it stands for the pain of the past two years, wants to prove he can.

The lizard crow caws explosively, its desperation audible in its croaking voice, and it spreads its wings and leaps off the bench, the wind picking up the torn edges and flinging the bird onto the sidewalk, where it flails. Mako's teeth grind together; he takes another step back, the creature's heat steadily channelled away from it, steadily drawn towards him to dissipate into the air. He doesn't care where it goes, so long as it's not in the bird.

Cawing again, the lizard crow makes a final lunge away from Mako, its talons scrabbling against the sidewalk, its missing foot hindering its motions. As the last of its heat is stolen from its body, the creature opens its beak and lets out a scream so human it gives the firebender pause.

He narrows his eyes and clenches his hands into fists until his fingernails leave red crescents in the flesh of his palms. But he can't. Even for all of the hate built up at the stupid bird with its stupid mocking, he can't do it.

His arms fall to his sides.

With a squawk, the creature half-hobbles, half-flies away from him, several scruffy feathers falling out.

A passer-by grabs his shoulder; Mako spins around, jerking himself out of the powerful grip, and glares at the intrusion, some choice words already on the tip of his tongue. A glint of sunlight causes him to wince, but his eyes adjust, and suddenly he finds himself staring at a police officer.

He swallows.

The cop frowns, her light green eyes harder than emeralds. "Where are your parents?" she demands. "What are you doing out here by yourself? And why are you firebending? Are you hurt?"

Mako struggles to rein in his breathing. His lungs burn. "I'm fine," he chokes out around the sudden lump in his throat and the immotile lump that is his tongue. "My brother's waiting for me, officer. I need to get back to him."

"Why were you firebending?" the officer asks again. She scans him head to toe; the firebender sweats under the severity and weight of her gaze. "A street rat, aren't you?"

He considers her, droplets beading his brow from his fear. What if she takes him away? What will happen to Bolin? "No, ma'am," Mako lies, his throat constricting. "My brother is waiting for me. It's his birthday soon, and I was picking out a present."

"Then why were you firebending? And where are your parents?"

"I was—"

"_Mako!_"

The firebender stiffens, a wave of terror rolling through him at the sound of Bolin's high-pitched tone. Skidding to a halt, Bolin hesitates long enough to glance at the lizard crow before turning towards Mako; the earthbender grabs his hand and pumps it up and down. "Mako, I was scared. Where were you?"

"I told you I was going to the market," the firebender hisses, thinking of some way, any way, to somehow get away from the officer prior to Bolin being able to say anything contradictory to what Mako has already told her. "Bo, what are you—"

Bolin seems to notice the officer for the first time. He gasps, his hand flying to his head as if trying to find a hat, and bows to her. Mako blinks, the cop doing the same. "Mommy says you always take your hat off in the presence of a lady," the earthbender says earnestly, "but I don't have one. I'm sorry."

After a moment, the officer smiles. Mako exhales in relief as she removes her hand from his shoulder. "Your parents taught you well. You can tell them that."

Bolin bobs his head up and down. "Thank you. I'll make sure to let Mommy know!"

To Mako's surprise, the cop nods curtly and walks away, his brother's cheerful optimism somehow melting away her gruffness. A grin graces his lips. "Thanks, Bo. C'mon, let's head back." He hugs Bolin gratefully.

And then something in Bolin's shirt squeaks and _moves_.


	48. Warmth

A/N: This chapter is concurrent with the previous chapter.

* * *

His chin rests on the rim of the canoe as he watches his brother leave. "Bye, Mako," Bolin yells after him, waving his arm, but the firebender doesn't answer, vanishing into the crowd. "Good luck!" With a sniffle the earthbender slides into the canoe bottom, his left hand touching the still stinging cheek. Raising himself up over the side, he gazes at his own reflection in the sparkling waters of the bay: A red mark shows clearly against his skin. But beyond that, he can see his bright green eyes, Mommy's eyes, and a cattish grin. Blinking at himself, Bolin reaches out a hand and plinks the surface of the water with a finger, laughing out loud at the ripping wave. As he leans even further, Bolin suddenly senses the canoe tipping under him, and next thing he knows his entire world is water.

His limbs flail of his own accord, churning through the bay, pain exploding in his eyes, his throat, his chest. Somehow the combination of his motions catapults him above the surface. "Mako! _Mako, help!_" He gasps for breath, his lungs burning, and feels wildly for earth. It sings to him with Mommy's voice. The earthbender grasps it with his fingertips, then kicks upwards towards it, needing to reach it before the water sucks him away entirely. Out of nowhere the wooden dock smashes him on the forehead, but Bolin grabs hold of it, pulls himself up.

Faintly he calls his brother's name. A spurt of water erupts from his throat, spraying the dock. Collapsing, Bolin silently waits for Mako's embrace.

Though he doesn't entirely understand why, his brother never comes.

After a time, the agony in his lungs drains away. Involuntarily Bolin coughs several times more prior to scrambling to his feet, the midmorning sun shining into his eyes.

On his right side, a few boats bob innocently on the bay, characters festooning the sides, some of which he can't read. On his left, a giant fishing barge is setting off, the waterbenders on deck propelling it to carve through the waves more rapidly than propellers.

Yet the canoe is nowhere to be seen.

Bolin gulps another breath of air, unspeakably grateful to whatever spirits opted to pull him out of the water, and rubs his eyes. "Mako?" he tries, aware that his brother has gone to the market. "Canoe? Canoe, where are you?"

The bay is quiet.

The earthbender rubs his nose on his wrist, sniffling again and sitting down on the harbour. His mind tracks steadily through his choices, centring mostly on following Mako to the marketplace after all to meet him. Beaming at his brilliant idea, Bolin springs up and bounds across the dock, relishing the sound of his heels slapping against the wood. He hums a tuneless ditty as he skips through the street, smiling at the passers-by and tipping imaginary hats to them while he searches for the market. Turning the corner on a street he swears he recalls from last time his brother took him to the market, the earthbender hears a noise coming from an alleyway. A mewling.

Kittens?

Bolin pauses and ducks into the alley, dodging a tall lady with a dress seemingly made entirely of green feathers. The temperature is cooler here, vestiges of last night's snow hidden away on the edges, and his exhalation puffs out into a cloud. When he inhales, he's hit with a rank scent. Before Bolin can investigate, the mewling sounds again; the earthbender cocks his head and notices an inconspicuous black box waiting expectantly to his right complete with a crudely hand-written sign faded by time and weather: _For free_. Squeezing his hand underneath the lid, he flips it up, his eyes adjusting to the darkness in time to see an entire miniature pile of furry red _things_.

"Kittens!" Bolin squeals, clapping eagerly and clutching the rim of the dumpster to launch himself into it, feeling the warmth radiating from the tiny bodies. He can't remember the last time he's seen kittens of any kind, and he hopes these are hamster cats kittens, their pudgy forms so fun to hug. One near his head mewls and squeaks. Laughing, the earthbender pulls that one out from the pile and embraces it, giggling when the tiny creature licks his cheeks and nose with a rough little tongue. The kitten's ears twitch, its tail curling up against his arm. Bolin glances down at the animal and finds himself reflection in a pair of liquid amber-brown eyes, the creature's face a pattern of red and white.

"You're not a kitten," Bolin says as if chastising his new friend. "You're a silly widdle fire ferret."

The fire ferret sneezes; its fur poofs out, standing on end, and the earthbender cries out with delight at the red puffball in his arms. A memory of Mommy—talking about the pets she had when she was little—pops to mind. "Pabu," he decides firmly, then frowns. "But what am I going to name all your brothers and sisters?"

Pabu chirps and pokes his snout into Bolin's pocket. The earthbender hears the crunch of fire flakes and giggles. "You like 'em?" Digging his hand into his other pocket, he grabs as many as he can and drops them onto his stomach, nudging the other fire ferrets. "You guys want some, too?"

None of them move.

Eyes narrowing, he strokes one of the other red puffballs and is abruptly surprised to feel how cold it is compared to Pabu. A fire ferret topples from the top of the pile, and the rank scent grows worse.

Bolin gasps and clutches Pabu close to him. For a heart-pounding few seconds he can't feel the edge of the box, but at last he finds it and hooks his arm over it to climb up and tumble out, his side hitting the ground hard enough to make him pant heavily.

Without looking back, the earthbender takes off, arms clasped around Pabu's warm body, begging the spirits to guide him to Mako.

And then he hears his brother's voice.


	49. Keep

A/N: The greatest of joys

comes from nothing but laughter

between family.

* * *

Mako leaps away from his brother, his hands flying to his chest to feel to make sure his _own_ shirt isn't moving. His head snapping up, he stares at Bolin, protectiveness and concern bidding him to point at the earthbender's outfit.. "Bo, there's something in your—"

Red and white pokes out of Bolin's collar. Ears. A twitching nose. The boy laughs loudly and gently grasps the creature's torso to pull him out of his shirt. A fire ferret. "See, this is who I was telling about, Pabu," he chatters to the animal, which tilts its head to one side. Mako glances left and right at the people looking incredulously at the young boy speaking to a pet like it could understand, some of them smiling, others clearly seconds away from jeering. Grabbing his brother's hand, the firebender drags him along the sidewalk, ignoring him as he jabbers on. "This is Mako, my brother. Pabu, say hi. Mako's my guardian spirit, did you know that?"

Pabu. Bolin had to go and _name_ it, didn't he? At the mention of himself as a guardian spirit, Mako pauses for a moment, then continues, running his right elbow over the bulge in his pocket to ensure the filched fruits are still there. There's no way Mako is going to let his brother keep some _thing_ he found. Or worse, stole.

"Anyway, Mako, this is Pabu. He's mine." Bolin rubs his nose against the fire ferret's; the firebender winces and leads the two of them towards an alley where they can speak. He stops in front of the corpse of an elephant rat decapitated, no doubt, by a closing dumpster, trying to decide if it's edible or not. Reminding himself of the fruit and of the food taken from the triad, Mako turns away from the body and fixes his gaze on Bolin, who is currently being _tasted_ by the fire ferret.

He quickly dredges up everything Mom and Dad have ever said on the subject of pets and stray animals. "We can't keep it," he declares firmly, crossing his arms. "It might have worms." Not that he knows what those are. "Or ray-bees."

"What's a ray-bee?" Bolin asks in-between tickling the fire ferret and embracing it fiercely; the firebender is about to interject when he notices how imaginably _happy_ his brother is, his grin the widest Mako has ever seen, the eyes the brightest.

He doesn't remember the last time Bolin looked so unbelievably overjoyed, so engrossed, so _alive_.

No, he does. The morning he turned up on their doorstep, and Bolin was talking about the cake he wanted for his birthday. The words are stamped forever in his memory: "_Chocolate, and vanilla, and mint, all with fudge and nuts and chocolate and more chocolate on top_."

But somehow this little fire ferret has made him happy again.

He inhales, steadying himself, and teeters back and forth on the brink of decision for a moment or two before sighing. "All right, Bolin, who gave that to you?"

"Gave?" Bolin cocks his head to one side. "I found 'im all by myself," he declares proudly. "He was in a box." The earthbender giggles when Pabu—the _fire ferret_, Mako tells himself—licks his cheek, then sneezes. Hurriedly he adds, "It said _for free_, so I wasn't stealing nothing."

"A box?" Mako repeats dubiously, arching his eyebrows. He exhales slowly and touches his scarf, pleading for the patience and the strength to deal with his brother. "What does that mean?"

Bolin shrugs. "There was a little box full of fire ferrets." Gasping, the earthbender puts his hands over the animal's triangular ears and drops his voice down to a whisper. "He's all alone, like we are."

The firebender furrows his brow. "But you said it was fu—"

"His brothers are _getting cake_," he says quietly.

Mako's eyes widen, his chest tightening, his throat constricting.

Mom.

Dad.

Getting cake.

"He's all alone." Bolin's eyes are wet, more like pools of green than anything else. "He didn't have anyone else in the whole world who loved him and took care him and made sure he never went hungry. But now he's got me. Just like how I've got you."

Mako swallows.

"You had the chance to be a big brother," the earthbender remarks seriously, lowering his arms for a moment, his palms still over the fire ferret's ears. "It's my turn. I've always wanted a little brother."

He opens his mouth to respond, but whatever words he wanted to say—words of _we don't need another mouth to feed_ and _it could get us sick_ and _it was in a box of dead things_—are stuck in his throat, his tongue refusing to move, his heart hammering painfully against his sternum.

"Please, Mako?" Bolin sniffles, then blinks as if surprised by his own idea. Sliding his hands to the fire ferret's sides, he hooks his thumbs underneath the creature's arms to flail its limbs about, his timbre ringing out a full octave higher. "I want to stay with Bolin!" he says squeakily. "I want him to be my big brother and I want him to hug me and stay with me so we can have fun together forever. Please please _please_?"

A murmur in his mind tells him to say no, tells him that it's a terrible, tells him he'll end up with nothing but tears and fears and broken promises.

He recognises it, faintly, as the voice of logic, the voice of reason.

And yet . . .

Bolin's sheer _joy _. . .

He won't listen, not this time. This time, it's not about better safe than sorry. This time, it's about his brother's happiness.

"Fine." Mako sighs. "You can keep him. But he's your responsibility."

Bolin screams aloud and throws himself onto the firebender, squeezing him into a tight hug. "Thank you thank you thank you. I won't disappoint you, promise. Love you, bro."

He embraces his little brother back. "Love you too."


	50. Fall

AN: In the game of lives, you win or you die.

* * *

Snow.

Cold.

A frozen world.

Winter arrives with teeth and claws, sinking its fangs into the city amid a flurry of snowy tears and icy blood, its baited breath chilling the waters to freeze, its irises grey with hail and sleet. Windows slam shut, doors lock themselves closed, the denizens of the concrete forest preparing to sleep until the feathery throats of birds herald a coming spring, their mighty fortresses well-stocked with caches of food, moats of yellowed grass or cracked cement separating them from the rest. But here and there, in the rivers between the towering skyscrapers and groaning metal reams, there come stirrings borne of the colour red.

Cardinals, crimson against the white.

Yue Bay bids its waves to continue, fighting valiantly against the frost biting at the edges, and amid waters dominated by fishermen's prides, cruise-liners, and giant trading vessels of plumes of soaring smoke and hulls of tempered steel there gently rocks a tiny canoe, an island unto itself, the three inhabitants forming a bubble through which nothing else can come. Mako folds himself into the tiniest space possible at one side of the canoe and observes the world. The days of stealing winter fruit, rationing the triad supplies, and watching Bolin and Pabu frolic together roll into each other, punctuated merely by the necessity of sleep.

He realises, slowly, that this is the easiest winter he has ever been through. For once, he has food, and plenty of it, and that in turn fuels his inner fire to heat himself and Bolin through the frigid nights. Heatbending sparks a curious feeling in his chest somewhere between regret and longing, the blue of Miza's eyes filling his dreams and awakening him with sensations he doesn't recognise and doesn't entirely understand.

_Miza_ . . .

But she's gone now. A symbol of the triads he left and never wishes to return to again, his life a step up above them. And as much as he misses her and wants almost nothing more than to see her again and hear her breaths and wonder at the oceans captured in her irises—so utterly contradictory to the overwhelming fires captured in her palms—that little _almost_ is the key keeping him from going back.

And there's nothing he can do about the fact that she didn't go with him. She made her decision.

Yet he wants to see her again badly enough to make his chest ache and his hands ball involuntarily into fists at the thought of the triad doing anything, _anything_ to harm her.

For now, there's no point in thinking about her or imagining her silent ecstasy if he were to return in a blazing glory. Instead, he turns his thoughts to the newest addition to their little family.

The fire ferret.

Mako can't say he ever expected to pick up a pet on the street, but that pet is something to both brothers. To Bolin, the firebender guesses, Pabu is a distraction, a plaything, an activity to carry on and stave off boredom while the older brother is off lurking in the shadows of the market or waiting patiently in the bowels of Watertown for a chance to bring home dinner. But to him, the fire ferret is different, far different.

The future.

One step closer to getting off of the street and returning to how things were. No, they never had a _pet_, but if he can just _prove_ that he can take care of one—that he can find enough food and heatbend them all to keep them warm until the sun decides to return.

Because it _will_ return. It has to, doesn't it?

But how can he put faith in something he doesn't know is out there? Maybe the world has been plunged into an eternal winter, or maybe the spring will be late and arrive only after their dwindling food supplies run out and force them back onto the street, like those last days in their old house. He ponders what became of it. It's passed into legend, Mako decides. It doesn't exist any longer, having sunk into the ground with the sickening noise of wrenching boards and shattering windows, the last memories of his past life swallowed whole by the merciless mud.

He can't imagine anything else.

Though he avoids the streets whenever he can, Mako finds his routes through the city leading him dangerously close to the statue of Fire Lord Zuko, his feet taking him along familiar sidewalks no matter what his mind says. Children more shadow than substance watch him with sunken eyes, their ribs like keyboards running down their sides, the winter itself playing a melody with long white fingers, whispering its name in their ears, reminding them that soon, ever so soon, death will come to collect. Still others clutch their swollen bellies, crying out for the innards pressing against the taut skin, their rags soiled with the stench of their disease, tears trickling down their faces and wails tearing from their throats, begging the agony to stop._ Worms_. Mako shudders and moves on, stepping out of the way of the watery brown left behind to stain the snow, a disturbing memento of the pain.

A few are much better off, their stomachs not bulging outwards but filled with enough food to keep the Hunger at bay. And in a twisted spiral these few retain their strength and use to better themselves all the more, pushing down the weak, trampling them beneath bare feet and falling snow.

He's one of them.

And though he's never pushed aside or fought anyone, he's stolen. He's taken food, and what he's taken, no one else can. What heat he infuses into himself will never warm the freezing street rats.

He doesn't want to know how many people he's hurt.

Killed.

Maybe he's not the good guy after all.

But on the street, there are no heroes, no villains.

There are only those who survive.

And those who don't.


	51. Gift

A/N: Happiness. It can never last.

Time passes. It gets better.

Paths can cross. A familiar face can do wonders on the heart.

* * *

The parcel is wrapped in rustling brown paper and tied with a green string, the ends scalloped into patterns racing up and down the velvety lengths. Bracing himself against a chilly breeze promising another few weeks of coolness before winter at last gives up its final breath and turns over the rites of the season to spring, Mako trudges down the sidewalk, a newspaper carefully wedged under one arm, the parcel under the other.

Oh, it's taken a while, now, to save up the odd pieces here and there to barter and trade and sell, steal and beg and request, all for a round patty maybe a hand's length across and two centimetres high sitting in glossy silver foil speckled with dark brown crumbs and streaked with hints of chocolate icing, the moistness and airiness of that miniature wheel exquisite enough to permeate through the paper and make his heart sing with joy for its deliciousness and its symbolism prior to him even unwrapping it, drawing it out of its nest of café to show it proudly to the city.

The firebender smiles at the thought of his brother's grin, the bubbling laughter and the cries of surprise and of delight, the wild clapping together of palms creased with dirt, the showers of compliments and adulation about to be cast onto Mako for thinking—for _thinking of_—such a present.

A birthday present.

He continues down the path, slowing near a street performer with a battered instrument Mako vaguely recognises. A pipa. The woman strums the viper catgut strings with ease, a jazzy melody spilling out into the open skies, the player's tapping foot beckoning her audience to come along for the ride of a lifetime. A note here or an arpeggio there is out, just by a hair, yet the firebender's ears catch the errors and make him wince. Still, he wishes he had money or food or anything to toss into the black case at her feet: It's pitifully empty, vacant as an abandoned lot save for a handful of shiny red bills folded and tucked away into the corner. Unlike with the other vagabonds with their tin cups and their tricks of taking every donation to put it away and beg anew, Mako believes in this woman, believes that she wouldn't do the same.

"Your playing," he says suddenly. "It's beautiful."

The woman beams at him, her teeth yellowed and crooked with the signs of abuse, her skin mottled-white, but something about her happiness at her own music gives her the kind of beauty no natural looks could ever overcome. Her eyes might be sunken in with a tint of clouded milk, but the passion shines through clear in the murky brown.

She responds nothing to him, and he gives her nothing back but for the exchange of two smiles there in the street.

His hope restored, the firebender swerves past a pair of teenaged women strutting down the sidewalk with men's jackets and non-existent skirts, feathery boas slithering around their necks and hanging downwards amid glitter and pink. At first glance the adornments almost make them prettier, almost bring out something that wasn't there before. But then Mako looks again only to see the sloppily applied make-up turning them into leering clowns and garish ghouls, eyes stricken with greens and reds as though diseased, lips painted the colour of blood, skin paled to corpses. Shuddering, wondering why someone—anyone—would try to make themselves look anything but alive, the firebender avoids them. But he takes some comfort in their presence: If those kinds of people can walk unmolested, then he's no longer in the dangerous areas he once was.

Mako pats the parcel and moves onwards, glancing into the street to watch the satomobiles rushing past him, glittering like massive bugs with wings aflutter and antennae arching through the air to feel for the next turn, the next intersection, the next moment to bolt free.

What's the price of freedom nowadays, anyway? He hears it's going on the market cheap, cheap enough there might be barrels and crates delivered, and if they are, it'll be all the easier to filch a few.

Satomobiles. So new, and yet so old. He remembers Dad talking about them, leaflets clutched in his hands, eager to rave and rant about how Republic City has become a centre of technology and culture, a beacon of hope and light for the rest of the world.

If Republic City is supposed to be a beacon of hope, then what is the _rest_ like? He doesn't think he wants the answer. Not now, not ever, the poverty, sickness, and death he sees bitterness in his mouth.

Mako pauses at the edge of the sidewalk and shifts the parcel and the newspaper together to lay in the junctions of his upper and lowers arms, flat against his chest. The lines of the crosswalk blend and mix in his vision, the ribs of the city itself, jutting out from the salty grey-brown road the shade of rags. A magnificent sable beast of a satomobile stalks about the corner and prowls forward, its wheel leaving black marks in the cement. About to walk across, the firebender hesitates, embracing the parcel close. The newspaper's headline jumps out at him—_Order reports Avatar has mastered waterbending_—but so too does the date.

Bolin's birthday.

Growling to a halt at the crosswalk, the satomobile whines when it stops, its engine purring like a giant tigerdillo clad in shining black metal instead of striped orange-white fur. The rotund man within impatiently waves Mako forward, and he gratefully dashes across, stopping only once his heels have cleared the rim of the sidewalk on the other side. He turns his head to see a young girl with vibrant green eyes watching him from the passenger's seat.

On a whim he waves to her.

She smiles and waves eagerly back.

And then the satomobile travels onwards, as does Mako himself, Bolin's birthday awaiting him.


	52. Past

A/N: Written from green eyes.

One more hint of spring, and from there time must pass.

Time must always pass.

* * *

Spring.

His second-favourite season, where there come soft rains and the smell of the ground, and the world at once is bathed in his element, the earth singing to his fingertips, the melody coursing up his arms and legs and thrumming in his chest in a beat in time with his heart. Days like these, waiting in the canoe is impossible, and both boy and ferret take to the mud from last night's rain, coolness squelching between their toes and drenching their bodies. Bolin knows Pabu well from their closeness through the winter-time, the hugs and embraces and tucking-into-shirts needed to keep warm; by now he is as comfortable with his friend as he is with himself.

Presently the earthbender flicks his arm up, bending the mud from his face and clothing, aware of Mako's disapproval at the destruction of even rags. "Come on, buddy," he calls to Pabu, who, with a comical twitch of his nose, scampers up from the brown pool, wriggling his torso and tail to clear the mud off of him. Yawning, the fire ferret reveals tiny white teeth where before were merely pinkish gums, and Bolin smiles at the thought of his little buddy getting bigger.

It's nice to have a friend during the time that his brother is gone doing whatever it is he does in the day, coming home towards evening with fruit and meat and everything they never had.

He pauses. They had those things once.

But that was a long time ago.

Shaking his head, Bolin crouches on the ground next to Pabu, offering his friend a lift, and the fire ferret bolts; the earthbender giggles, feeling claws on his legs, his chest, his shoulders, before the red puffball curls up around his neck, a spot of wetness detailing his nose.

"C'mon, my big bro'll be back soon," he says anxiously, wondering what Mako will think if he's late. The pebbles of the slope from the harbour to the Pro-bending Arena rough on the pads of his feet, he earthbender races back towards the direction of the bay, glancing back only for a second to catch a glimpse of the magnificent golden dome, breaking up the skyline with its _size_. Spring means off-season matches, practises, the teams getting ready for the tournament come fall. "One day," Bolin asks Mommy, if she's listening, "will you take me to see a match? That'd be the best birthday present ever." He considers. "Other than cake."

Pabu licks his cheek, causing him to giggle at first, and then laugh loudly, the mirth bubbling up from his stomach. As he approaches the canoe, he makes out the tall, lithe figure of Mako already there, and, cupping his hands over his mouth, he calls out to his brother across the dock: "_Mako! Hey!_"

The firebender's head snaps up. He waves towards Bolin, and the earthbender immediately senses an unusual happiness. He buzzes with excitement: Whatever could make Mako happy will make him _overjoyed_. The fire ferret can detect it, too, a loud squeak coupling with an eager jump that sends the kit tumbling off of Bolin's shoulder, but he snags his buddy and helps him back on. When the earthbender reaches his brother at last, he sees a package wrapped in brown paper and a newspaper in the firebender's arms. "Hey, Bo." Mako's smile—rare and radiant—leaves Bolin giddy, delirious, his mind racing to find what could possibly have made his brother this elated. "Do you know what day it is?"

Bolin blinks and cocks his head to one side like a bird; Pabu does the same. "Opposite Day?" he guesses.

His brother laughs warmly, setting the objects down onto the duffel bag wedged onto one end of the canoe and opening his arms for a hug. For a moment Bolin stands there, a quiver running through him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, unable to understand, and then he decides to stop caring and leap at the chance. Flinging himself into Mako's arms, the earthbender snuggles him, rubbing his forehead against the hollow of his brother's throat as he's seen Pabu do. "Happy birthday, Bolin. You're eight years old."

His mouth drops open. "As old as you were when Mommy and Da—"

"I got you a present." Mako's interruption turns the conversation onwards, and the earthbender bobs his head, brimming with the kind of anxiety that fills one up and manifests into the widest grin imaginable.

"For me?"

"Of course for you." Pride is written on every centimetre of his form: With a flourish, Mako takes out the parcel in brown paper and unfolds it, one careful motion at a time, the package like a lotus blossom opening slowly to the outside world, each petal glistening with droplets of dew.

The scent is familiar, oh so familiar, but he can't _quite_ name it, can't _quite_ recall the words he needs—

The final fold, a flutter of his brother's hand, and then _cake_.

Chocolate, _and_ vanilla, _and_ mint, all with fudge and nuts and chocolate and more chocolate on top. Eight layers. One for each year.

As if a switch has been flicked on, his mouth begins to water on cue, his eyes widening until they, too, are the size of the dinner plate on which the cake rests, perfect enough to require its own word.

His mind snatches a passing one: _Sublime_. He doesn't know what it means, but it fits the cake, the sublime.

His heart squeezes in his chest; Bolin looks up to see a curious hunger in his brother's eyes, the amber glittering. The earthbender glances back towards the _sublime_, not yet comprehending its existence.

Slowly Bolin raises his left hand, his _index finger_, and pokes the _sublime_.

Fudge, on his nail.

He screams in delight and is about to attack the best birthday present ever when Pabu hurtles downwards from his shoulder and lands directly on it, a splash of chocolate splattering his shirt.


	53. Tip

A/N: The best-laid plans of elephant mice and men so often go awry.

* * *

A surge of fury rages through him, the surf upon the pebbled shore, at the sight of the fire ferret in the cake, icing clinging to its fur.

How _dare_ that stupid red ball of fluff get into the present he's stolen and saved up and begged for, a present meant for his brother, a present that was supposed to show Bolin that he doesn't _need_ Mom or Dad around to have the best birthday ever.

Especially an eighth birthday. An important birthday. The kind of birthday that marked, for the firebender, the difference between receiving and taking, the kind of birthday that fills one up from head to toe with a shivering sort of maturity, as though one is on the brink between learning that Mom and Dad _can't_ do everything, that there won't _always_ be a skirt to hide behind, that terrible things will always happen.

Every heartbeat brings with it hardened eyes and tightened jaw, his muscles coiling, tensing, preparing to spring at the fire ferret—a rat viper, more like—ruining his brother's birthday. His anger rising, Mako lurches forward, arms outstretched and fingers splayed to grab the cake thief and salvage what remains of what should have been the birthday of a lifetime.

Fur. Warmth, writhing under his fingertips, the fire ferret radiating its fear at his touch, or maybe its excitement at being able to devour Bolin's birthday gift. His nails dig into the creature's flesh, and he snaps his arms back, taking the animal with him.

His brother yelps, his green eyes wide and shining, his mouth opened into an _o_. "Mako!" Bolin squeals. "What're you doing?"

"He's ruining the cake," Mako snaps in response, holding the creature painfully; it squirms, squeaks of alarm causing him to wince. His gaze shifts to the crinkly brown paper, the chocolate smeared over it, bits of icing dropped to the bottom of the canoe, the entire thing squished and sprinkled with reddish hairs. And yet Bolin doesn't seem to care, scooping up a handful of cake and grinning.

"He didn't ruin nothing." With a giggle the earthbender sniffs at the brown mess in his palm and bobs his head eagerly up and down, a curl of hair on his forehead—separated from the rest of his dishevelled hair, a nest of blackbirds—springing against his brow. "It smells delicious and I bet it tastes delicious and do you want some bro?"

Seeing his brother's uncorrupted joy, Mako hesitates. The fire ferret is still struggling against him, his palms and wrists scratched from those sharp claws, and he sighs and loosens his grip; the creature shoots out like red lightning, smacking directly into Bolin's chest and knocking him backwards, nearly over the canoe, before leaping back onto the cake and burying its head in the chocolate ocean. "I said that's not for you!" the firebender snarls, lunging for the stupid animal.

Seconds prior to contact, he senses the canoe shifting below him, as though the floor itself were moving, ascending, falling. Bolin, perched on the very end of the bowl from the fire ferret's leap, is sinking, but his heels are lifting upwards, his body tilting downwards.

The fire ferret cheeps in terror. And then he's below water, his mouth filled with salt and bitter spray. Thrashing, Mako kicks his way to the surface, breaking through the waters and gasping for breath to soothe his burning lungs. While he treads water he glances around, his blood roaring in his ears, to see the overturned canoe and the flailing form of his drowning brother. "_Bolin!_" His arms wrap themselves around his brother's chest, pulling him up out of the water, pushing downwards on the area above his heart to force the ocean's blood form his throat.

For a moment nothing happens, and the firebender swears the world itself has stopped, his limbs going numb. Then, miraculously, Bolin begins to cough and gasp and strive for breath. "Bolin. Bolin! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" he splutters, liquid dribbling down his chin and dripping into the waves. With his right arm Mako lets go of his brother's body, keeping the earthbender against him with his left, and swims towards the canoe, the waters splashing over them and dampening him further than he already is. If only he were a waterbender, he could do something about the sogginess of their clothing and how water-logged both of them feel. He reaches blindly through the water until his knuckles connect with wood in a shower of pain, then heaves it over to bob innocently in the bay once more, the scarf-coloured rope tying it to the dock and preventing it from being washed out to sea. "But where's Pabu?"

Hoisting his brother over the rim of the canoe, Mako exhales in relief. Until he realises that the food from the triad is gone, along with the newspaper and the fruit he scavenged this morning.

More importantly, the cake is gone, this time forever, the last speck of fudge somewhere in the ocean by now.

"Where's Pabu?" Bolin demands again, his voice shrill. "Mako, tell me Pabu's okay!"

The firebender glares at his brother, who silences himself instantly. "He ruined your birthday," Mako explains impatiently. "I don't think we—"

Bursting out once more, his brother breaks in: "_Mako!_ Tell me Pabu's okay, please!"

He wants to say no, wants to shake his head, wants to turn back to how things were.

But then—

"No more getting cake." Those green eyes, Mom's eyes, are shiny with tears. "No more." Guilt swallows him whole, and he pushes off of the edge of the canoe to dive into the depths, the fire ferret floating within.

And soon Pabu is jumping nimbly into Bolin's arms.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get you your cake," Mako tries, his throat burnt.

Bolin snuggles into his lap, a great ball of warmth and laughter and love. "Thank you. For the best birthday ever." He smiles.

Confusion washes over him. "The best?"

"Because you're here with me."


	54. Take

A/N: Memories, lurking beneath the surface.

The rest of the year drops down swiftly.

And soon, ever so soon, three-tenths will be done.

* * *

With the food from the triad bag gone, they are eating less, but the rags around their bodies give no indication of their frames. As long as Mako can't see ribs, they're not there, are they?

No, no they can't be.

To make up for the difference, then, is to play a game of hide and seek, stalking the market, snatching, scurrying away to squirrel away the goods in whatever spot he can, hiding it, hiding—always hiding it, now, all of his actions hidden from everyone, even Bolin. He doubts his brother will understand what stealing, sometimes, is necessary. It's not as though he's doing it for benefit or for profit. If Bolin ever asks, Mako will tell him the truth:

"I'm doing it for you."

A long ago he wouldn't dared have filched a thing. Mom's words drift lazily across the sea of his mind, a memory floating easily along the waves, scooped up and down by the motion coursing through the water, the sights, sounds and smells returning to him in that faint ambiguous veil so customary to dreams. He remembers: The set of pencils, resting then against a storefront, their tips shiny-black, their sides perfectly divided in six. His hands pressed against the pane of glass, his breath fogging the window, his deft fingers twitching from the almost-prophecy of being able to flip open a crisp sketchbook page and begin anew to craft a world from lines of solid black, but now, _now_ with these pencils, magic pencils.

In the store itself, then an easy task to knock the set down with a sweep of the hand and look away, the pencils landing neatly in his pocket. Mom's hand, a powerful grip on his shoulder, her nails digging into the skin on his collarbone. "Put those back." Her timbre, quiet in her worry. "Put those back, Mako." A feeling of ice trickling down his arm, indignity whispering through him, asking him why he should listen. His own surprise at himself. The pencils, back in their position of rest, their tips shiny-black, their sides perfectly divided in six.

"We never steal, Pabu." Her old nickname for him, the word resting easy on her lips, the joke sprung from the upwards spiky sworl of his hair. Mom smiling, her light brown hair falling over one shoulder in its long braid. "We might not have everything, but we have plenty. Promise me you'll never steal."

Promising. Considering spitting, even, into his palm like in school. The pencils would do nicely for his art, the art Dad praises, the art Mom hangs up, but not like this.

But here, in the real world, in the not-a-gift present Mako slides steadily over past a stall, the merchant a teenaged girl with dark hair swept back into two loose hair drops. The ash banana drops into his pocket easily as the pencils did those years ago, the weight burdening him yet reminding him that he will not starve, that Bolin will not starve, that even the fire ferret will not starve.

Besides, that promise—that guilt-spewing turn-of-phrase—wasn't made by _him_, was made by another boy who has a mother and a father, who sleeps in a soft bed beneath a quilted blanket, who wakes up in the morning and races downstairs to sneak a cookie or two from the jar on the counter only to be slapped away by a barking command of _breakfast first_. No, he never made that promise.

Not him.

So Mako takes a second ash banana for good measure, the peel coming away in his palms to reveal the tender off-white fruit within, the _food_. Ground between his molars, squished to the roof of his mouth by his tongue, swallowed nearly whole to sink into the depths of his belly. Dropping the peel to the muddy ground marked with paths of the crowds milling about the market, most here to purchase and to barter, some here, like him, to rattle the sticks and roll the dice and see if they might be caught, Mako glances down at its ashen-yellow colouration.

Art.

He hasn't thought of it in a while, hasn't thought of it since the day the smoke and ash cleared and there lay—

_And there lay his life, crumbling around him_—

But he hasn't thought of it. The old sketchbooks must still be in a dusty corner of the old house somewhere, gathering dust all the more, waiting for him to return. He can recall Dad's loping handwriting, the characters seeming to melt into one another with tiny swerves and miniscule strokes giving the illusion, somehow, of ink running and changing and _shifting_ even while he watched, the brush darkening the page with his name: _Mako_. Like Dad himself, though Dad's sketchbook was full of the night sky. Mako's was shaded, bent, scrawled within. Not sullied, nor dirtied, his dedication and cautiousness too great to allow for it. Within the confines of the two broad covers: Pages of childish drawings and simple figures melding, over the years, into trees, birds, people. No mastery, never. But the glimmers of emergent talent, rising up from the deeps.

All gone.

Mako swallows both the ash banana and the memory. "No," he whispers to himself, his hands closing upon the scarf. That was that _other_ boy, the boy with Mom and Dad. Not him. No. It couldn't be.

Instead, then, he kicks the peel between two stalls and lifts his head to glance at the heat of the sun, summer's arrival imminent with a blaze of fire and a rush of lightning, the air crackling with the static of coming thunderstorms, nights short and days long.

This time, they'll have water, no matter if he has to travel to Central Park to dunk container after container into the river for it.

_They will survive_.

Mako will see to that.

Just as he will see to Bolin's dinner, tonight, one fit for a pair of street rats and a red-furred friend.


	55. Sparks

A/N: In the game of life, you win or you die.

I would like to say thank-you to everyone who has stuck with me this far. You all are truly the only thing making me happy in my life at the moment.

To readers like you, thank you.

* * *

Spring melts to summer melts to autumn, blossoms melting to fruits melting to harvest, now, filling the stalls

Spring is a time for fruit, a time for juices running down cheeks and laughter echoing from the alleyways as bare feet spring, light, onto the cement and the gravel pathways, a time of pausing for moments to count, silently, what one has lost to winter's jaws.

Summer is a time for lethargy, for children to hover in the cool darkness out of the scorching sun, for Central Park to suddenly become vibrant with life, everyone meeting at noon by the watering hole as in the fanciful tales told to him, when he was little, the armadillo lions and whalephants and fox gazelles congregating softly around the placid pool, a temporary truce in the heat.

Autumn.

The best time for the street children, after the heat of summer has at last died away into warm days and cool nights, the children playing with one another, stomachs no longer growling so loudly, the city bustling full of merchants—not the home-grown ones waiting in the carnival of a marketplace south of Watertown but those arrived on gigantic steel ships with wings unfurling and masts climbing into the sky—eager to finish unloading their yearly wares prior to the chokehold of cold again, frost forming, snows washing down meals. Orange and green, yellow and red, vegetables and meat, wrinkled ocean kumquats and steaming sea slug, sugar-dusted fruit pies and leopard seal steaks, spicy fire-wine and intoxicating white jade tea, tiny scarlet berries and massive emerald melons, broken open, split down the centre, their reddish insides dripping with moisture to dispel the disappearing dredges of summer.

And with these merchants, with this sudden cheapening of food after the great harvest, comes plenty. Money is from nowhere vital, the price at long last making it useful for something other than kindling for the fire. Yuans taken easily from unsuspecting pockets, all leather and fur, traded in just easily for cans and boxes and _food_. No one questions the ten-year-old boy meticulously examining items in the marketplace, his fingers pushing in to test ripeness—as though he knows what ripe is beyond _delicious_—and fishing slightly damp pinkish-red bills from the well of his pocket, rubbing his wrist against the rim, the fabric humid and moist from the bay.

They've seen him before, wandering here with the tell-tale scarf the colour of blood, never saying a word, merely waiting, watching, more shade than light. He can see it on their faces: They are pleased, grateful, relieved that he is _buying_ things.

He never mentions Dad or Mom. But carefully, ever carefully, he hints that he is _not_ another mere street rat hopelessly lost in the gutters, hints that he is a boy from a well-off family with a house and a bed and the scent of breakfast ascending the stairs in the morning.

And so no one questions him, and he slips away again, pretending to be unfazed.

Each evening he returns to the canoe, always ensuring that his brother _is_ there, _has_ remained there the day's course. No, he doesn't know what Bolin does in his time alone. No, he doesn't want to know, care to know, see fit to know, as long as his brother is where he belongs by the arrival of evening.

Passing the statue of Fire Lord Zuko, Mako looks up towards a gaggle of street rats, a flock, a herd, where previously were merely individuals each eking out a living in the concrete jungle. Dressed in rags of grey and brown, the proud colours of the school of hard knocks, they run amok, banged elbows and scraped knees and cuts scarring up and down their bodies like his own scar, still a faintly visible white ridge over the flesh of his right arm, fading away like a nightmare just before dawn. The street children play a curious game, sometimes involving a ball, sometimes not; sometimes done with chasing, something not; something fraught with leaping from fences or jumping over waste-bins, something not.

But no matter the differences, it is all the same game. The game, Mako names, is one of gaining wings. _Wings_. The word is bittersweet on his tongue, at once the sugary delight of the thing that could take him and Bolin far, far away, and at once the salty bitterness of the thing he can never hope to have.

He's no airbender.

Mako is about to move on when this particular session of the game catches his attention, and he glances up, a faint wind stirring his hair and caressing his cheeks, to see a small crowd of children and teenagers on either side of a makeshift arena drawn into the dust. Two teams of three, all boys, grapple in the centre, pebbles and bursts of fire and licks of waters knocking them forward and back, a single lanky teenager standing dangerously close to the inside of the playing field and watching it all with some amused interest.

The teenager lifts his chin to gaze questioningly at the firebender, a faint smirk on his lips. In return Mako recognises him and the wash of hair over the right side of his face and the inhumanely fluid movements.

"Hey," the pale waterbender from so long ago calls, "you ever played pro-bending?"

His brow furrows. "What?"

The children break into cheers and whoops as the first trio pushes one from the second team over the line.

"Pro-bending," the teenager repeats, nodding at the fallen member to leave the 'arena'. "It's fun. We need another firebender. You should play while it lasts."

Mako stares at the bright faces of the street rats, their happiness radiating off of them and vibrating up in giggles and yells and screams of joy, and he wishes he could join them.

But Bolin is waiting.

"Not today," he says calmly. "Maybe tomorrow."

The teenager shrugs and gives him a curious two-fingered salute.

"See you 'round, firebender."


	56. Thrill

A/N: Things start small.

Things grow.

Things end up big indeed.

* * *

He glances at his brother, perched atop the rim of a black waste-bin, his face shining brightly with excitement and pride, his eyes wide with anticipation of the match. Mako smiles, love stirring within, reaching out towards the eight-year-old boy who looks as if his birthday has come early.

Then the firebender turns back to the two kids on his either side, all three of them exchanging a single knowing glance.

Their competition may be determined, but _he_ is more so.

"And . . . _fight!_"

Adrenaline surges through his veins along with a thundering heartbeat as the whistle is blown and the match begins. Rapidly Mako bolts forward, the fire flaring in his right palm, and pushes his arm outwards to expel the flame into the other team's waterbender, who yelps when the heat brushes his brown hair and staggers backwards. Smirking, Mako lifts both arms for a dual blast at the earthbender, the tiny rocks lifted from the ground nothing in comparison to the inferno.

Above the roar in his ears, he can hear his teammates fighting on his left and right sides. Narrowing his eyes the firebender weaves to the left to dodge the opponent waterbender's meagre splash and leaps forward once more, neatly dancing to the right as a shard of stone whistles past his ribs. A competitive blaze grows hotter and hotter in his chest, fuelling the heat filling up his limbs until he is fit to burst. Within an instant he spins about, fingertips trailing fire arcing outwards into an inferno ring. The three opposing benders flee over the line drawn in the dirt, moving into a crude fashioning of the second zone.

"The Lizard Crows take the lead!" the pale waterbender declares over the ear-shattering applause of the crowd, leaning against a drainpipe. His eyelids are half-lowered in his apparent boredom, but his voice has taken on a fast-talking jiving accent like the radio announcers . "Tough luck, Shark Rats."

The first taste of victory is sugar on his tongue; Mako advances in an instant, the line diving Shark Rat and Lizard Crow territory blurring under the stampede of feet. The Shark Rat earthbender shimmies backwards, jerking his head up and bringing a massive chunk of earth up from the ground, flinging it with ease directly at the Lizard Crows' waterbender.

"Time for the Shark Rats to fight back! They've made quite the _splash_."

Paying no heed to his teammate's cry of pain as the rock slams him in the stomach and sends him careening backwards off of the makeshift arena, Mako takes the opportunity to sweep the earthbender's legs out from under him with an orange-yellow arc. His gaze snaps from the firebender to the waterbender to the earthbender again. A semicircle of stone spins outwards from the Lizard Crow side and smashes into the opponent firebender's chest hard enough to knock him into the last zone, and a second one casts him out of the arena entirely.

"And there goes the Shark Rat firebender! What a _burn_."

With an approving nod Mako looks at the earthbender on his own team, trying to gauge his ally's plan, but the larger teenager simply gyrates about to pick up more rock.

A tentacle of water wraps itself around his ankle and snaps back, forcing him almost off of his feet, but he leaps nimbly up and shakes the hose off. Heat builds in his hands, forming into seeds of amber that blossom into great flowers of fire, spewing outwards as the dragons of old. His opponents scream, one of them running directly off of the arena—"Earthbenders are supposed to be stable, but this one's pretty quick!"—while the second flings his hand up, creating a shield of water. A hiss of steam brings oohs and aahs from the spectators along with an avalanche of yells and whoops.

_So close_. Mako can taste victory already. Delicious, it is, and he wouldn't have it any other way. All he needs is that one more moment . . . that one final push . . .

Over the crowd's noise bursts Bolin's voice: "_You can do it, Mako!_" Ambition flares, coiling, muscles burning, tendons contracting, more and more tightly like a spring composed of fire; a sliver becomes his entire world, one sliver containing that veil of water. The second the curtain of liquid falls, splashing at the bender's feet with a ribbon of rainbows reflecting from the droplets—

_Fire_.

White, red, yellow, orange, scented of ash and smoke. A dragon, maw open, jaws spread wide, claws sharp and ready to tear into everything in front of it to make way for the victor.

The waterbender doesn't have a chance as the heat wave gives him wings just long enough to soar out of the hexagon outline of the arena and drop into the imaginary drink. Spent, exhausted, electrified, Mako waits in the centre of the arena, his breath caught in his throat.

He breaks into a smile, the glass of fear and worry and Hunger shattering, melting into the sincerest grin he has ever felt.

He's done it.

A whistle. "The Lizard Crows _win_."

Cheers, applause, a standing ovation the likes of which have never been there for him, the entire alleyway—no, no, the entire _world_—transformed into a giant festival solely to congratulate him. His ears ring from the noise, his eyes sting from the colours, his heart pounds like a drum of war from the exhilaration of winning.

He drinks it in.

Something hits him in the stomach. Bolin, hugging him fiercely, Pabu chirruping from the thrill floating through the air. "I knew you could do it, bro!"

Mako grins crookedly at his brother, ruffles his hair fondly. "Couldn't have done it without you."

"Not bad. For a rookie." The pale waterbender, arms crossed. "You said you were ten?" Warily, he nods. "Best firebender I've seen, younger'n most. We could use you in the games. For fun."

Mako considers the teenager.

"Fine."


	57. Crew

A/N: A familiar face.

Red strings of fate tie us all together, bringing our paths to cross again and again.

Of the mentioned, it is only important to know of Tahno and Sakira.

* * *

He's beginning to know their names.

There's Tahno, the one who runs it, who somehow keeps the street kids' spirits up even as the coming winter threatens to shut them down, way down. A waterbender. From the swamp, goes the rumour spreading around the children like an illness, but one spread not through sneezing or coughing but rather through muttered words and whispered secrets: He came here with some yuans and an address to go to, but a Triple Threat decided to end it all by jumping him the moment he stepped fresh off the boat. Ever since, Tahno has been wandering around the city, sometimes dealing with the Red Monsoons, mostly working by himself. Apparently he _had_ a stint with the 'Soons, but he soon found . . . better work with his natural talents.

Seeing the teenager's fluid movements and the way even the boys in their company sometimes look longingly after the waterbender, Mako doubts he wants to know what said talents are.

Then there's Sakira. Tahno's right-hand girl. A waterbending girl with dark brown hair curling to her shoulders, usually done up in a pair of hair drops and a long ostrich pony tail at the back of her head. She's the one with the constant smile on her face and the eager need to help everyone and everything around her. At twelve—if the rumours are true—she's barely older than Mako, but for some reason she seems much older, perhaps from her wisdom, or her tendency to give out her last scrap of rice, or the way both Pabu and Bolin act around her, the former nuzzling every part of her the fire ferret can reach, the latter constantly hugging her and making jokes and generally treating her like an older sibling.

He can't say he approves.

Beyond that, there are other frequent members of the pro-bending club. Hiroku and Hado, Aoi and Asokin, Kako and Korzin. Others sport names borne of the street: Stitch, Patch, Shorty. Patch he recognises at least as the boy who worked with Wulin. But the boy is no longer manning the post. Apparently he gave out a little bit _two_ much.

Most of the street kids are boys, only two girls peppering the ranks here and there, both of them waterbenders. Girls, he's noticed, don't survive on the streets, not very long. Too often they are snapped up by hungry shadow men prowling in the darkness; the girl is lucky to come out dead. Because living after being taken, he's heard—there's no worse fate.

He fears what would have happened had he or Bolin been born a girl. But with the pro-bending fights and the daily hunt for food to stave off the Hunger biting at his heels, he has enough sleepless nights; worrying about things that could have happened and possibilities for other lifetimes is more than a waste _of _time. No, Mako hs better things to worry about. Like the weather, steadily dipping towards the other end of the spectrum, the first snows of winter already threatening to all from the dark-bellied clouds floating menacingly overhead. Or the approaching scarcity of meals thanks to the end of autumn, the harvest of food transforming into the harvest of lives.

Still, seeing the way Tahno looks at Sakira every time a man approaches the street gang; the way he walks casually in front of her with his almost inhumanly fluid motions, as though he himself were made entirely of rippling water; and the way he watches the passing threat with eyes of sharded ice, Mako can't help but be curious of why Sakira is special enough, different enough, or perhaps merely lucky enough to be protected and to survive.

He knows that Tahno and maybe others have shielded her and defended her every step of the journey: The girls who have survived in one piece—Aoi, younger sister of Hado, and Sakira, perhaps Tahno's sister for all Mako knows—have both been protected at every turn by an older boy. It's not because the girls are weak. But it's because the dark denizens of the street _believe_ them to be.

Weaknesses. Mako frowns, kneels in the dirt, draws figures in the dust to remind himself of the different members of the gang.

Aoi. Her strength is speed, not so much in punch. Hiroku? Powerful earthbending chunks, but slow, clunky. Korzin, a master at firebending, a failure in dodging. Asokin, a nasty waterbender whose scarred body reveals his slowness yet also his weight, his muscles bulging outwards while the rest of the crew is perched on the verge of half-starving. He's known as the armadillo lion for his sheer inability to be budged. Huge in frame and huge in wrath, he's the one no one wants to touch, save Tahno, who can somehow control the hulking brute of a boy. Stitch, another scarred one, his earthbending fluid, marked by continuous streams of motion, a feat learned, evidently, from Tahno himself. Kako, another firebender, this one better at the dance of the fight but too unsure of his own abilities to hit when it counts. Patch, Hado, and Shorty, three nonbenders, their contributions to the pro-bending matches mainly snide comments and dark humour that entertains those appeared from the sewers and the shadows to watch. The only three nonbenders Mako knows that have survived for long on the street. Two work as informants, Shorty's field of profession one of . . . pleasure, as she puts it.

There's no payment, no reward, only a silent agreement to come to the same spot at nightfall every other day for a street match.

They draw a sizable crowd, mostly street children anxious for a break from the monotony. Each session brings new teams and sometimes new team members as benders on the crew never show, sometimes for the day, sometimes forever. No questions. Merely replacements.

Mako fights, learning his opponents' strengths and weaknesses.

And Mako wins.

And wins.

And wins again.


	58. Bonds

A/N: Wherein one_ can_ teach a young fire ferret new tricks.

And a world-weary firebender.

But the trick isn't new, then. Merely forgotten.

_Side note_: I would like to apologise for the increasing grammatical/spelling errors in previous chapters. These will be gone, since I finally have a working copy of a text editing program, which I haven't had for Part III and part of Part II, I think.

Expect writing quality to improve!

* * *

"What are you doing, Bo?"

He can taste the coming snow on the wind; soon the world will be covered in tendrils of white, in beautiful flakes of frost, in rivulets of ice that may well speak of impeding death. Mako doesn't quite know yet what the winter will bring, but part of it will no doubt be a close to the pro-bending matches that have lofted them through fall. Already the crowds are smaller, the crew more broken-up, disjointed, as food becomes more difficult to find.

With the masses at the marketplace thinning, it is, for him, harder and harder with each passing day to hide amongst the rustled cloaks and tapping boots and allow his hands to sneak into pockets and lift under trailing ends of dresses to find the folded bills and jangling coins that, like magic, are transformed into meals, hot meals. Nor does Mako dare steal directly from the merchants: They know him now, have memorised his face, his irregular eyebrows a defining characteristic that keeps him from ever hoping to pass merely as another thief. The scarf, he can hide beneath his clothing, but his eyebrows he can't. Perhaps if he had a hat . . .

Bolin hangs over the side of the canoe, holding Pabu in the water. His outstretched arms cause his shoulder blades to show clearly through the fabric of his shirt. Noticing a shiver of cold racing through his brother's frame Mako blinks at him, cupping the fire in his palms and bringing it closer to the earthbender, willing the heat of the flame to seep into Bolin's body until he ceases to shake. "Bolin?"

"Teaching Pabu how to swim and stuff," his little brother responds cheerfully. "Don't you 'member how he near drowned?"

The memory of the ruined birthday leaves a bitter flavour in his mouth. "What about it?"

Bolin shrugs, the ragged clothing moving as though it were a loose blanket. In the water, the fire ferret squeaks with alarm. The earthbender blurts out a breathless apology and shifts his stance. "You okay, buddy?"

Mako wants to tell Bolin to quit it, to sit down, to act his age. But he doesn't actually know what _act his age_ means anymore. And, to be honest, the last thing he desires to see his brother's grin fade like a dying fire, the embers dissipating into the cold night, smoke mingling with shadow.

Instead, he feels his own lips curve upwards into a faint smile at Bolin's laughter; Pabu's antics are a ray of happiness in their otherwise bleak lives.

The firebender casts his gaze downwards now, turning his attention towards dinner: The last blood oranges of the season, small, wrinkled, and likely dry, supplanted by the remains from a bag of rice purchased the previous week. Grabbing a cup salvaged from a dumpster dive the other day and filling it with bay water, he hears today's newspaper crinkle beneath him. At least Mako's been aware of the day ever since he started collecting newspapers nestled amidst discarded wrappers and worn scraps of clothing.

He can scarcely believe it's been nearly a year since he left the triads. It's felt like forever.

Miza.

If he closes his eyes, if he concentrates, if he leaps into the sea of memories and almost drowns, he can remember her face, her soundless laugh, her eyes. Her _eyes_, the sky and sea captured in her irises. And when she was bending, it was as if she had set fire to the rain, the amber glow serving only to accentuate her natural beauty. Sometimes in his dreams Mako can still feel her embrace. Warmth trails in the wake of her touch.

A blue-eyed firebender. The tension, the paradox, the _why aren't you a waterbender_ and _why aren't your eyes gold_ that brings him back to her every single time. There's something poetic about it, a girl caught halfway between the moon and the sun, destined to be greater than either.

He wishes he could say the same about himself. Yet the universe appears to have different plans for him.

Mako glances up at his brother, the earthbender's cheeks positively rosy as he rocks back on his heels, laughing, his fire ferret purring in his embrace. Water droplets spray from the creature's fur as its limbs paddle in mid-air. Eyes bright, Bolin holds Pabu out to the firebender, a splash of brine wetting his shirt, and flails the poor animal's forelegs about. "I can swim now!" his brother chirps, his voice knocked up an octave. Opening its mouth, Pabu reveals pink gums and tiny white teeth. "I'm the best swimmer there is! My big brother says so!"

He can't help but chuckle. "Your big brother?"

Bolin bobs the fire ferret's head up and down. "That's Bo! He protects me and feeds me and believes in me and I love him so much." Returning to his usual timbre the earthbender squeezes the creature into a hug. "I love you too Pabu. And _my_ big bro, too."

A smile steals onto his expression. "Love you back, Bo." One of the few phrases that doesn't merely leap from his lips because he's used to uttering it. No, _love_ is a strong word.

Unless he means it, he won't use it.

Mako inhales and stretches, putting out the fire in his hands and finding his usual spot around the cup to heat the water to boiling. The match tomorrow is no doubt going to be the last of the season: Tahno has declared it will end with the first snow.

Bolin pokes his knee and pouts imploringly, his irises glitter-bright. Instinctively the firebender knows what his brother wants; his arms part and allow the earthbender to slip into his lap. His head rests on his older brother's chest. On the scarf. Mako wraps his arms around his little brother, feeling how small Bolin truly is.

How fragile.

How easily ripped away and never ever given back, like Mom and Dad.

His heart squeezes. Pounds. Beats against his sternum so painfully he's certain his brother can feel it.

Slowly he presses the tip of the scarf into the creases of Bolin's palm; soft fingers close on the scarlet.

They stay that way for a long time.


	59. Match

A/N: The tower in construction is Harmony Tower.

Time for equalisation.

Playing is nothing. Winning is everything.

* * *

The sky is grey.

Clouds hang low enough over the city skyline that the top of one of the in-construction towers—supposedly the tallest in the world, if the newspapers can be trusted—has been engulfed, bare steel beams and all, in their snow-heavy bellies. A breakfast of elephant rat found on the side of the road and half of an unidentified can of what he's reasonably sure was vegetable soup will have to fuel him through the match. Something—he can't quite name the feeling—whispers that _this_ match may yet do more for him than any other, but Mako supposes he'll have to wait and see. For now, he has little to do except wait patiently, leaning against the grey brick wall of an alley next to the usual rendezvous point and watching his brother make friends with the passers-by. He's no qualm with Bolin's antics as long as they don't endanger either of them.

He knows he's early. But being prompt has always been important, at least to him. By the time the rest of the street crew is beginning to arrive, Mako has warmed up, his muscles stretched, his mind sharpened.

Victory is so close he can smell it.

It'll taste, he thinks, like the secret-ingredient dumplings Mom used to make.

Today's crowd is large. Fifty. Sixty. Street rats, children of the poor, random walkers stumbling upon the steadily swelling throng. The wrestling match between Asokin and Hado in the midst of the mob likely doesn't hurt. Shifting his gaze left, Mako catches a glimpse of a thin grey face watching him over the top of a waste-bin, the caved-in cheeks and sunken eyes reminding him of why he can't—why he _won't_—give up.

Finally, accompanied by an outburst of giggles from the girls in the crowd, none of them likely living on the street itself, Tahno arrives. His characteristic smirk already in place, the pale waterbender gazes from behind half-lidded cats' eyes at the members of the crew, his lip curling. "So, who'll it be?"

Before Mako can respond, Bolin has dashed past him to leap into Sakira's arms; laughing, the girl swings him about. "Mako," the earthbender announces. "I volunteer Mako!"

Tahno raises an eyebrow. Quickly the firebender nods in agreement, body aching for the chance to prove himself, to earn the crowd's cheers. "On the Lizard Crows," he adds.

The waterbender shrugs nonchalantly. "Who else?"

A brief time of scuffling: Everyone in the crew is here for once, save Aoi, and _everyone_ wants in on the final match. Deciding to stay out of it, Mako crosses through the mob, avoiding sharp elbows, jabbing fingers, and brutish movements only to abruptly feel a tingle of pain race down his right arm followed by a sensation of static. He clutches his arm: It's numb, though he can still move it. Enraged, the firebender twists around.

"Who did that?" he demands.

A thin man with an absurdly long black moustache is staring at him, scouring his spirit with an intense gaze. Mako's eyes widen; he shivers under the weight of the glare. Then the thin man nods curtly. "You are the prodigy?"

The word floats past his mind uncomprehendingly. His suspicious flaring, his eyebrows knit together. "The what?"

"The prodigy. The ten-year-old fire_bend_er—" The thin man spits the word from his lips as though it were poison. "—with the skill to defeat opponents thrice his size?"

Praise. Mako's defences disappear swiftly as a box of take-out thrown into a gaggle of starving children. "I . . . I guess I am."

The man's right eye twitches as a gale of anger passes over his expression, though the moment passes fleetingly enough the firebender isn't sure if it was real or not. "Good luck," he grunts. Turning away, his hands floating onto a pair of black rods at his hips, the thin man disappears into the crowd. Confused yet simultaneously enjoying the praise, Mako continues to stare at the place where the man was seconds ago.

"Thank you?"

"Mako!" Sakira's voice. "Are you coming or not?" Snapping his head up, Mako is surprised to find two brilliant blue eyes filling his vision. Sakira waves cheerily at him. "Good luck out there, sport. Bo's told me a lot about you." He frowns at her use of his brother's nickname. "Go, silly." And the way she treats him like a little kid. No, he'll show her.

He finds it curious that even though he's the youngest of three pushed onto his team—Tahno is on his left, Stich on his right—he considers himself the oldest. The most talented. The three Elephant Rats stand no chance whatsoever against these Lizard Crows, not even with the combined force of Asokin, Hiroku, and Korzin.

Asokin, Mako has decided, is _his_.

Tahno's motion catches his eye; Mako looks over. "If we win," the pale waterbender says calmly, undercurrents of a threat darkening his tone, "we won't have anything to worry about." Stitch smirks, yet the firebender merely stares.

"What do you—"

Raising his volume Tahno whistles loudly. "Let the final match of the season begin, winner take all!"

The muscles in his legs coil, tense, then spring, sending Mako into a forward roll. Concentrating heat in his palms he bursts whips of fire outwards towards Asokin. Unfortunately a stream of liquid turns his attack into steam. To his left Tahno spins about; a serpent of water follows his every movement and streams outwards to curl itself around Hiroku's leg. While the earthbender goes down, Mako dances right to avoid Asokin's counter-attack. Agony smashes through his ankle: A burning welt courtesy of Korzin brings tears to his eyes.

Pain.

Pain.

_Pain_.

Mako twists backwards. Stitch snaps angrily at him and pushes him in spite; the ground rushes up to meet him.

_No._

Someone grabs his wrist and lurches him back up. Tahno blocks a flaming projectile and cocks an eyebrow towards him. "We've still got a match to win."


	60. Win

A/N: When I set out on writing this, I had no idea of the rich and varied world I would encounter. _Scarf_ currently stands at 30% completion. And I wouldn't have gotten anywhere without you guys right there alongside me.

Thank you.

Also, may everyone say, "cliffhanger"?

* * *

By now both earthbenders are out. Add in a well-timed counterattack from Tahno, and the behemoth Asokin has been pushed out of the arena as well, fury raging on his small face; the crowd moves to allow him to pass, then closes in again to watch the match. It's as if they can all feel it, the same as he can: Winter is here, the last few strains of autumn giving way to the relentless cold.

Now, teetering on the cusp between fire and ice, Mako watches Korzin's motions. Studies them. Analyses them. A spring to the left, a sidestep to the right. Fire follows the other firebender's fingertips and arcs outwards in a massive ring; Mako throws his arms forward in defence, cutting through the flames. On his left, Tahno glances at him; their gazes meet, and suddenly he knows what the waterbender is planning. Without a second's hesitation he rushes forward. Fire builds in his palms, blasts outwards at the same time as a stream of water curves to the side. His voice taunting, Korzin leaps to his right, easily avoiding the heat. "That the best you can—"

Mako smirks while the jet of liquid slams squarely into the firebender's head. "No, but _that_'s pretty close." Stumbling backwards and wiping water from his face, Korzin snarls at the two Lizard Crows.

"There's Spirit World to pay for that, mongrels." Flame bursts in twin cones towards Tahno; the waterbender blocks one but is catapulted back by the other. The beast turning towards his final quarry, his fist flies through the air, but Mako is faster, kicking upwards. Twisting backwards, he smiles grimly while Korzin falls backwards onto his rear. The older boy screams. His shirt is caught in blazes of red and orange, the flames casting a golden glow onto his terrified face, the air rent apart by his shrieks of terror and pain. Several grab the nearest rain barrel and push it over; the water sloshes.

"Looks like someone's all washed up." Mako puts his hands on his hips and smirks again at the firebender still trying to put out the remaining embers.

A lull.

Then, _cheering_.

Adulation, a standing ovation, the roar of the crowd buoying him. Mako lifts his arms, and the masses cheer even louder. Cacophony swells, transforms into a sweet melody, a pounding march, a wild orchestra belting out a theme for him and him _alone_. Street children, spectators, those who have helped him and those who have harmed him swarm over him as one; he feels himself being raised up, hugged, called the greatest bender in the world.

Only a street match.

But somehow _this_ is what excites the street as nothing else. A break from the pace of day, from the viper cat race, from the broken homes and tired parents and double-shifts per night, from the scavenged food and the whispered temptations of drugs and the promises shattered sun rise and sun set.

And, if nothing, it gives him wings. Wings to spread. Wings to soar. Wings to protect and never, ever let go.

Wings.

Flight.

Freedom.

_Freedom_.

Freedom from the constant fight against Hunger, freedom from sickness and cold, freedom from having to forgo his own desires to fulfil his brother's.

The instant the thought passes through him, his euphoria evaporates to be replaced with ice.

"Bolin!" Pushing against the claustrophobic crowd, Mako rips off hands clinging to his limbs and backs away. At once a chat springs up; it keens over the sounds of passing satomobiles and yelling children: _"Mako! Mako! Mako!_" As much as he wants to drown in the masses' affection, he can't. He has to find Bolin. _Has_ to. "Get away from me!"

Claws dig into his flesh, eyes of green, blue, brown, grey, gold, black staring at him in turn, hunger flashing in their irises. The fabric comfortingly warm, he grabs his scarf for protection. "_Mako! Mako! Mako!_" Not cheers. Demands. For what? He doesn't know, doesn't want to know.

"Bolin!" he screams again. What if his brother somehow read his thoughts? And how could he _think_ such a thing? "_Bo!_ Where are you?" He can't breathe; he's suffocating—too much—smoke—ash—_fire_—

"Hey, everyone! Leave the kid alone!" The wave surges away from him, leaving Mako coughing on the cement. A dark-skinned hand catches his attention. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he accepts it gratefully and lurches to his feet. "Are you okay, little guy?"

Mako furrows his brow at Sakira, thankfulness and frustration clashing within him. Her eyes flash glitter-bright. "I'm fine," he snaps. The moment the words fly from his lips he reminds himself that she might know where his brother. His voice softens to the tone used to flatter adults. "Have you seen Bolin?"

Sakira cants her head in a manner reminiscent of Bolin; a squeak behind her alerts him to Pabu's presence. Frowning, Mako tries to hide the jealousy flaring up in his chest. How dare Bolin leave Pabu in _her_ care? "I thought dear Bo was with you," she answers calmly, a lilt to her tone.

He wants to punch her face for being happy while he panics. "When did you last see him?"

"Oh, towards the start of the match." She scratches the fire ferret behind an ear, and the creature purrs. Envy burns hotter in his chest. "Did you misplace the little dear?"

Glancing around the area, Mako realises it has mostly cleared out, empty as a broken promise. Fervently he cups his hands over his mouth: "_Bolin! _Where are you?"

"_Sakira_." Tahno. The teenager's sultry tone is unmistakable. "We have to go."

Crossing her arms, Sakira pouts. "_Why_?"

Mako is already turning away, attempting to keep his heartbeat under control. The scar on his arm—the winding serpent of his deal with Zolt—prickles with a reminder of what happened last time he lost Bolin.

Then Tahno's words make his blood run cold.

"_Equalists_."

Silence.

"I think they took some of the crew."

* * *

End of Part III.


End file.
